


The Light Behind His Eyes

by Left_Hand_Man



Series: The Light Behind His Eyes [1]
Category: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children (2016), Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - Ransom Riggs, mphfpc - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2018-09-06 03:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8733442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Left_Hand_Man/pseuds/Left_Hand_Man
Summary: Everyone at the home sees Enoch as he's always been to them, which is to say they fail to see him. Only the tiniest glimpses into what lies behind his dark eyes imply things even darker, but can Jacob Portman, the bright-eyed boy with the power to see monsters, see the light behind those cold, hardened eyes, which are so hesitant to meet his own?





	1. The Boy from Beyond the Bog

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fiction, so any commentary is welcome! Also, I refuse to do smut. If you're worried about triggers, it'll mostly be anxiety, rough housing, trust issues, you know- all of the necessary angst that gets piled onto Enoch.

Enoch swept a thick brown lock out of his eyes, to no avail. His hair always seemed to have a mind of its own. Right now, however, it was behaving in accordance to gravity, at least partially, as Enoch was hunkered around his work table in the damp basement. The humidity never helped tame his unruly curls, but he scarcely minded the obstruction of his hard, brown eyes, directing the entirety of his intense concentration to the homunculus before him. At this moment, he was inserting the pancreas of a mouse into the tiny clay figure. “ _Perhaps he'll live longer, the more organs he has. The more that can go wrong, the more conscientiousness required ...”_

His intense fixation on the bite-sized creature he was stitching was the reason that he didn't notice the hushed voices outside the rarely-open door to the basement.

"I wouldn't recommend that. Enoch's a sour git at the best of times, and downright murderous when he's interrupted. You don't even want to go down there anyway, it's honestly just disgusting."

"Well I'm too curious not to bother him now, for the principal of it." A lower voice replied to the female one before it, which was just a bit melodramatic and more than a bit flirty.

"Your funeral."

"That should be entertaining, Enoch being there. Tell him my left kidney's off limits. That one's my favorite." And with that, Jacob Portman swung open the door with a skinny hand, shutting it behind him.

For a split second, he regretted his decision. The basement was dark and smelled of the crudely preserved organs that had stood the test of time outside of the loop, but this only piqued his curiosity further. Carefully, he moved down the stairs, croaking with age. Perhaps the stairs wouldn't groan with his weight if he were just a few pounds lighter, as he was before Dr. Golan bogged him down with ridiculous amounts of medication that made him feel even crazier than everyone was telling him. Two weeks ago, he'd decided to ditch it. No regrets.

It took him a few seconds to adjust to the minimal lighting, a pale yellow lamp illuminating the figure of a young man hunched over a desk. He was so pale it was obvious that he never saw the light of day, too busy in the basement. Enoch's eyes didn't lift themselves from the wooden table where he was standing, stool abandoned long ago, an impediment to progress. It didn't take Jacob much smarts to know that he was much too immersed in his work to take notice of him, and that if he disturbed him now, everything, including his left kidney, would be in a jar on that shelf.

He decided to push his luck and close in on the poodle-headed boy. He smiled at the observation that such a menacing presence had the hair characteristic of a dog breed, one of whose members, named FeeFee, had accidentally suffocated herself in a Doritos bag. Jacob once made a snide comment about that incident to his father and was grounded for a month, which was forgotten about after a good four days. Grin still plastered to his face as a result of these random recollections and observations, Jake, very, very cautiously, lifted the rickety old stool and moved it a few feet further back, where he could perch himself without stifling his breathing for fear of disrupting the old curmudgeon.

Enoch was still completely oblivious to the antics of the other boy as he finished up suturing the minuscule mannequin. From afar, Jacob admired the intensity of the legendarily cantankerous necromancer, his crimson lips pursed ludicrously tight together, probably to prevent his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, like an overly-focused cartoon character.

An inkling of fear passes over Jacob that Enoch would be irate that he had watched over him, without knowledge or consent, and so he started plotting a slick getaway, too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the homunculus finally hop up. Jacob directed his attention to peeling off his clunky, borrowed shoes, not seeing Enoch as he turned on his heels to face the direction his newest homunculus was pointing with a doughy arm.

A devilish smirk crosses Enoch's sultry features, and he clears his throat. The exaggeratedly loud noise in the silence of the musty basement startles Jacob, who jumps like an idiot and consequently falls a good two feet onto the dusty, chill floor, one shoe barely on his foot and the other a feet over top of his head, loosely tossed during the fall. Laughter as cold, deep, and dark as the basement itself fills the air, despite the fact that it wasn't very loud. Enoch never laughs very loud, if he laughs at all.

He bent down to observe the stunned boy of the floor, bending his neck in a slightly awkward contortion so as to let a few week rays of light illuminate the terrified expression of the stranger. If there was something Enoch always prided himself on, it was being able to terrify someone with very little physical imposition, more like a general, psychological unease.

"What's all this about?" Everyone's favorite probably-sociopath skips introductions, as he's always been keen to do, skipping right to the chase. Though the inflection of the slightly raspy, his deep voice is too soft for Jacob's liking, too calm. It has an edge, but it's hard to find. The most dangerous knives are the ones you can't see. Jacob can't see his face due to the fact that the lighting is behind it, and he makes a movement to sit up, but is swiftly forced down by the shorter, yet considerably better-muscled boy hovering over him.

"I said, 'what's this about.'" The edge to his Scottish voice is sharp enough to cut this time, the annoyance palpable.

"I was just stopping by to watch. I'm Jacob, Abe's grandson." Jacob tried to sound friendly and perky in an attempt to diffuse the situation, but his words were too quick and he sounded just as nervous as he was, hyper-aware of the wide heel of Enoch's palm digging into his collar bone and the feeling of his warm breath hitting his face, calm and even.

"I-I'll just be getting out of your hair," Jacob nervously chuckled, using his right hand to give himself a noogie, sure he was making himself look like even more like a flustered idiot to Enoch's unforgiving, harsh eyes.

Instead of being a normal person, Enoch decides to crook his elbow, and even before Jacob knows what he's doing, Enoch's propelled himself onto his feet by grinding further into his poor clavicle, earning a pained whimper from Jacob, who was profusely blushing.

He decides to stay down for a few fragments of a second as Enoch closes the distance in between himself and the staircase, homunculus in hand. After deciding that his bones probably weren't broken, Jacob first grabbed the shoe over his head and then swung himself onto his haunches, bending over to remove the lose second shoe and rectify the somewhat-heavy metal stool. By this time, Enoch had reached the second plywood step after the landing. "You coming, or not? It's supper time." His accent is thick with irritation, but it sounds nearly forced, his voice casual otherwise.

Unhesitatingly, Jacob pushes himself up, off the dirt-coated floor, and bounds toward the staircase with long legs, staying a safe three steps away at all times.

The light was a shock to his eyes as Enoch swung open the thick, oak door, and he's too blinded to see that Enoch's hand lingers on the outside of the door for just a moment too long. _“I could slam the door in his face, even lock him in there. No, that's no good. Last time I did that, Emma burnt the door down. Besides, he's not without charm...”_ Startled by his own softness, Enoch decides to slam the door, but can't bring himself to bash that _charming_ face. Instead, he settles for walking onward, refusing to acknowledge Jacob, lengthening his strides to distance himself further.

Enoch took his normal seat at the very edge of the table, with Horace on his left and nobody to bother him on his right. If he were being completely honest, he would have to consider Horace his best friend in the world, even though he doesn't know Enoch very well. Nobody does. And that’s the way he likes it.

A few seconds later, Jacob comes along, and he’s instantly greeted with a chorus of “You’re alive!” and “Enoch didn't kill you!” erupting from the congregation of peculiars. He replies with a simple smile and nod, focusing on the seating arrangement. A seemingly-empty sweater is gesturing him to sit in the actually-empty set beside him, but Jake has other plans.

“Will you switch me seats, please?” He bends down to be ear-level with Horace, probably looking like an idiot, as tall as he is and as short as the tuxedo-clad prophet is.

“Most certainly, good chap,” was his simple reply, but his face was more curious as he strolled over to the seat beside where a hurt-looking Millard was, if one can look hurt with no physical facial expressions.

“Sorry, Millard. I've got business to take care of,” Jake announces, sandwiching himself in-between Emma and Enoch on the huge wooden table.

“Hmm!” Millard sounded quite intrigued.

He seemed to be on the verge of growling before, but it was evident that he now had no care as to whether or not he got in trouble with the bird for inhospitality due to a low, animalistic growl radiating from the home’s most savage member.

At this, Jake scooted back in his seat about a foot from the table, turned towards Enoch and just laughed. “ _You laugh, buddy,”_ Enoch thought as he craned his neck around, slowly, for dramatic effect, emphasized by the fact that the dining room was now pen-drop silent, everyone in attendance hanging off the edge of their seats.

In the face of his murderous glare, Jacob just smirked. That was all he needed to do before Enoch’s normally olive-toned face took the pigmentation of Piglet’s behind. The entire crowd erupted in a roar of laughter, and that's when Enoch lost it.

If he weren't so flustered, so smitten, Enoch would've thought of something halfway-intelligent to do, but because the moment was as hot as his face, he just did the first thing he could literally see. With a stiff fist, Enoch lunged for his glass of water and just gulped, as if the cool liquid could extinguish the fire raging across his cheeks. After a few seconds, the laughter dropped off, making it awkwardly silent as he chugged. The half-way mark was the point of no return, and even though he knew there was no way on God’s green earth he could justify doing it, he finished it out, the slam of glass on oak hidden by the sound of the laughter of the group picking back up. The only one he could hear was Jake.

 _“You’re going to pay for this, Portman,”_ he thought bitterly, the focus of the children shifting back to Miss Peregrine, _“At least I'll have a decent excuse for a bathroom break.”_

“Alright, children. You've done a good job at welcoming Jacob, Abe’s grandson. I do hope you like it here, Jake?” Miss Peregrine first addressed the group, but soon her eyes were on jake, as well as those of everyone else's, excluding the twins, whose dangerous eyes were always shrouded with masks, and Enoch, who chose to look anywhere but at the bright-eyed boy beside him (assuming, also, that Millard’s invisible eyes were directed toward Jake.)

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, smiling out of politeness, a gesture Enoch could never remember doing in all of his 117 years.

“If I may ask, Jacob, how’ve you managed to soil your clothes again?” It was at this point that it donned on him that due to the skirmish in Enoch’s laboratory, he was still covered with a distinct layer of dirt and dust native to the seldom-trodden floor, and his hair was askew. From his view from behind the other boy, Jacob could see Enoch’s cheeks twist slightly, probably into that maniacal grin, the one that bears an uncanny resemblance to that of Norman Bates, which won't grace cinema with its presence for twenty years from the loop day.

Smoothing his straight, black hair down with his hand, Jacob moved forward in his seat. If he hadn't been so flustered, so smitten, he probably would've thought of something better to do, but in lieu of the situation, Jacob, too, reached for his glass, but his sip is too quick and too small, and it, too, looks ridiculous (though decidedly less so), earning him quite a few snickers from those he had just joined a few seconds ago. The only one he could hear was Enoch's, which was much more like a contented hum than a snicker.

“Well, alright then.” Miss Peregrine drops the subject and the meal commences. During this time, Enoch doesn't speak at all, which is normal. His appetite isn't as voracious as it normally is, however, having been filled up with water. Despite the fact that he hasn't grown in a century, Enoch still eats like a seventeen year-old boy, a seventeen year old boy who sometimes skips meals for reasons no normal person in the world would guess and, secondarily, accept. It's for this reason that he finishes sooner than normal, and instead of excusing himself early, as he would've done otherwise, he stays rooted to his seat, anticipating what’s coming up next.

Setting her napkin down daintily on her finished plate, Miss Peregrine clears her throat, and after a few hushed whispers and a giggle from Claire, all is silent once-more. “Jacob, it's about time for you to leave, isn't it?” She waits for him to nod before she continues. Enoch, now facing him, can't help but notice that he seems a bit disappointed. “It's highly inadvisable to brave the bog alone; it can be quite perilous. We don't need another bog boy, now do we? Any volunteers to escort Jacob through the bog?”

“I will,” Enoch declares, fairly forceful and booming, before anyone else can snatch the covered position.

“If it's alright with you,” Miss Peregrine adds, trying her best not to look concerned.

“It is,” Jacob confirmed, and after putting away their plates, the two were off.

Enoch twisted his head around during the short walk from the sprawling house to the edge of the woods to check if the taller boy was still there. He was, but a safe three steps away.He smirks as they head into the woods, thinking he’s intimidated the other boy enough to keep his distance.

That smirk was wiped right of his face as soon as they reached the cover of the woods, where Jacob took an unusually long step to shore up the distance between the two, taking the grumpy boy’s hand. This earned a low grumble, but no other protest as they navigated the woods, Enoch’s hand occasionally squeezing Jacob’s tighter.

Soon enough they reached the bog and Enoch released the other boy’s hand to complete a series of particular steps so as not to fall into the murky, man-killing bog, which Jacob accurately mimics. This action reminds him of “Dance Dance Revolution”, which would not take the world by storm for another 58 years.

After a fairly short sequence of steps, they reached the stone cairn. Without a look back, Enoch pivots to face the home, but is stopped by a warm hand on his beige woolen sweater. He sighs as he turns around, but is soon interrupted by a voice that’s smooth, unlike his own.

“Will you come through the loop with me? I've got something to show you. It won't work out here,” he explains, pulling a thin black box out of his pocket. Intrigued by this object from the future, Enoch follows him through the loop, careful not to dirty his shirt or pants. Not that he personally cares whether he does or not; he's not Horace. He simply doesn't want the others to deduce that he's been through the loop with Jacob, which they most certainly would, as much as they’re reading into this.

He emerges in 2016, where Jacob is standing in the open air, thick with impending rain, waiting for him, blending in with the grey sky due to his sweater. “Beautiful weather,” Enoch comments. Jacob can't tell if he's teasing or not.

“This song reminded me of you,” Jacob says softly, fishing the black box out of his trousers again.

“You mean I reminded you of this song,” Enoch corrects, standing over his shoulder, eyes wide, amazed as the other boy manipulates the device, bringing up an image that resembles a spiderweb, but is recognizable as a circuit board.

“Same difference.” Jacob rolls his eyes playfully as the song starts playing.

“We’re all going, we’re all going...”

The song had a good rhythm, to which Jacob was subtly bopping his head, and a captivating melody. It was harsher than any of the music available in the house. Enoch likes that very much, and he also appreciates the talk of clones made out of bones and moving on to the next place as if the last never existed, which he’s had to do twice so far in his long life. Eventually, the last note was played and Enoch was slightly disappointed, but didn't show it, making no comment to the other boy as he positioned himself to duck into the cairn. Again he was stopped by Jacob’s hand on his shoulder, and he starts to sigh for the 987,786,954th time in his life when his breath hastily changes direction, barely registering the soft lips pressed to his thin cheek before the other boy speeds off, just as quickly, but with decidedly sloppier athletic form.

For a second he stands staring, stunned, but it doesn't take long at all and he’s off, bolting through the loop and the bog and into the basement, not caring what people think when they see the usually cold, collected, and calculating Enoch run as if his life depends on it. But not even in the scantily-occupied basement is he safe from the enigma that is Jacob Portman. The only thing that's louder than his palpitating heart is what it’s beating to: his new favorite song, “Lampshades on Fire”, by a strange band called Modest Mouse, from the strange world Jacob lives in, where people carry endless supplies of music and information around in their pockets and, apparently, it's okay to kiss other boys. Not that Enoch’s ever cared what's “okay”.


	2. Two Boys, One Basement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after, and Enoch may regret what he's done...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, no smut, I just have a horrible penchant for really bad jokes and this chapter needed a title. It's pretty short, but I just wanted some content up in here.

Enoch completely doffed his night clothes and slunk two flights downstairs, into the basement, first thing the next morning. Not that he was naked, being that he had not dressed: it was his custom to wear his normal clothes under his pajamas, to avoid suspicion whenever Horace woke up the house screaming with a nightmare he knew would come true. Understandably, it would get hot under a button-up shirt, a dark green sweater, thick khakis, green-striped pajamas, and a blanket, so he always forwent it. The navy blue and dark brown quilt was always sitting neatly on his bed, after he smoothed it out every morning. His entire morning routine took three minutes, and he always woke up a bit early too, so that he could have time to himself before the needless hustle and bustle of a timeless world would start for the day that's been on repeat for 76 years.

“ _He probably won’t stay. He is Abe’s grandson, after all.”_ At this, the especially peculiar peculiar groans, recalling the day Abe left, how he called him a coward. In all honesty, though it was sure death for a peculiar without Abe’s rare ability to see the monsters, he still felt like a coward. 117 years is much too generous a life, especially for someone like Enoch, at least in his eyes. Even though his death was most likely long overdue, Enoch couldn't bring himself to end his own life, as much as he seemed to hate it.

Today he hadn't gone to the basement to tinker with things mortals were never meant to tinker with; today, he went for the sole purpose of being alone with his thoughts, usually a secondary factor.

His thoughts trailed on and on that day, with no interruption. The homunculus from yesterday had died at half-past nine that morning, which was nine hours longer than normal, but just barely unprecedented. His previous record had been 30 minutes shorter. _“Maybe if I could somehow cauterize dead tissue, without baking their insides…”_

Enoch, tucked safely under the work table, decided to skip breakfast. Miss Peregrine would understand. She always did.

His swarm of thoughts which would make Hugh and his billions of bees jealous were sharply interrupted by the sound of knocking on the door. He remained completely still, underneath the table like a child, as he had been the entire day, messing around with homunculi and trying to avoid the confusing boy who’d turned his life in a clammy basement in the middle of a bog into a bustling jungle all of the sudden.

“Enoch, I know you’re down there. Come on out or I'm telling the bird one of your monstrous creations killed you and started taking your parts to turn itself into an Enoch-stein.” Jake’s voice was serene and soft, and as much as Enoch wanted to hate it for his own emotional safety, he couldn't bring himself to. He stretched his legs and heaved himself off of the floor, hesitantly trudging up the splinter-ridden steps. He could make himself useful and sand them, but it was entirely useless and still self-serving, being that he was the only person to ever use them.

He came across the stool that he’d propped up against the door in self defense, staring at the door for a few seconds, debating if he really wanted to open the door or not. In the end, he didn't, deciding to address the mysterious American from the future through the door. “Good morning.”

“It's lunch.” Jacob sighed, sounding somewhat frustrated.

“I wouldn't know.” Enoch leaned up against the wall, appreciated that the thin film of dust would be cleverly disguised by his dark greyish-green sweater.

“Come on out, Enoch. Have I upset you?”

He debated for a few seconds what to say. _“Upset wouldn't be the proper term. Concern, maybe…”_ He had just opened his mouth to speak when he was cut off short by the sound of a thud on the door- Jacob slumping down to the floor, indicated by the thin bar of light escaping from under it.

“I'd rather you come on in,” Enoch murmured, barely audible, deciding to have this talk (or perhaps fight) on his own turf. He waited until he could hear the other boy stand up until he opened up the door, looking straight at Jacob unfettered by the sudden gleam of sun. After so long, he’d developed a sort of adaptation to it. He turned around wordlessly to make way for the other boy, thinking on his apprehensive expression as he took a seat on the old, metal stool.

“What brings you around?” Enoch asked, trying (and judging by the room, failing) to be a friendly person.

“You know what I'm here for.” Apparently, it was Jacob’s turn to be chilly. Enoch sighed, knowing full and well what he’d done wrong, as he stood about three feet away from the lankier boy, looking slightly up into his light eyes.

“I'm sorry.” He tried, he truly did, but it sounded as unemotional and detached as always. Most people would guess that, after so long, perhaps it had become impossible for him to synthesize emotions outside of anger and annoyance, but Enoch knew better. He just didn't like to admit it. His fear, the predominant feeling of his existence, was that Jake knew better, too.

Jacob sighed. “They say you haven't been seen all day, and that's not abnormal.” He sauntered over to the work table, carefully leaning against it, for fear that it might collapse and drop him to the basement floor just as the stool did. He almost smiled, thinking about how that's probably what Enoch's doing: _just trying not to get hurt again._ He wasn't mad, no. Disappointed, maybe, but he hadn't expected much. “But I can't shake the feeling that you're avoiding me.”

“I am.” Enoch never was one to beat around the bush.

“Why?”

“Not really your place to know, now is it?” Jacob figured he'd say that much.

“You’re a lot more transparent than you’d like to think. Those that keep secrets have something to hide.” He recalled a quote from his grandfather, back from when he was a kid. Then, it was just a tagline to get him to admit that he’d stolen from the cookie jar, but as he’d grown, it meant so much more.

Enoch gave another small laugh, low and cold. “Alright, Abe.”

“So? Are you going to tell me what’s up?” He smiled charmingly, even though he knew he’d crash and burn like the Hindenburg, which happened only three years ago. 

“The sky, Portman. Or in this case, the floor.” Sarcasm. Predictable. _“Am I really that predictable?"_ He though quickly. _"Yeah, most certainly,"_ he confirmed, looking at Jacob's knowing expression. 

Jake sighed whistfully. “Emma hates how fishy this is, you know, but when I asked, she told me some stuff."

“Like what?”

“Like nothing. She said you just walked in one day, right behind Miss Peregrine, just as you are. And the next day, and everyday after that, it was like you were the household blender. Always around here somewhere, but you only notice it when it's growling.”

Enoch stepped back onto the stool. _“Geez, this kid is too smart.”_ “Did your grandfather tell you anything?”

“Told me you were as stubborn as a donkey and of the same temperament, but not much else.”

“You remind me too much of him. Always too curious, too adventurous, too brave for your own good. Always admired that about him,” Enoch trailed off, breaking eye contact.

“So what is this?” Jacob asked, switching the conversation to something that might go somewhere.

“A basement, Portman, goodness. Don't they have those in America?” He grinned, looking back to Jacob, where he was still smirking.

Jacob snickered. “You know what I mean.”

“You don't want to see Emma’s fiery wrath. She’s got the hots for you. Plus the bird, irritatingly curious kids…” Any excuse Enoch could find, he’d use. He doesn't want to reject Jacob of his own accord.

“I appreciate your master punnery, but I didn't ask about them. I asked about us.” Jacob gave Enoch the kind of look when a father gives his child when they've done something slightly wrong and are now lying by omission; quizzical, like when Grandpa Abe caught him stealing from the cookie jar. 

He might not deal with people often, but he saw this coming. “I'm willing to give it a shot,” he huffed quietly, again looking away, to his lap, and then back at Jake, eyes huge and concerned, body curled almost protectively. For once, he didn't particularly care how vulnerable he looked.


	3. The Key from the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is trash :P

The basement meeting would have been adjourned shortly anyway on the grounds that Enoch didn't want to cause more suspicion, but it was time for lunch. They slowly tromped up the stairs, the roar of the gears turning in their brains and the steady "plunk, plunk," of their feet and hearts masking the sound of stifled breathing and invisible, well-calloused feet padding up the splintery steps, thick skin impervious to the rough boards. Even though he was smothering gasps and giggles all the way, Millard went undetected.

Today's menu included corned beef and more humiliation, at least for Enoch, when he was again burdened by the presence of the handsome guest, not too unlike his grandfather in features. Abe was the biggest stud to ever walk the loop.

Enoch tried his best to appear calm and civil, well, at least as civil as he would be on any other day. When he stole the quickest of glances over to the other boy, he seemed to be ignoring him for the most part, too. " _Oh thank Churchill ..."_

Jake turned his head from where it was cleverly positioned to view Enoch through the corners of his eyes when he heard Hugh joking that Jake was following his grandfather's footsteps real good, going for Emma. "Ha, no," he nervously chuckled.

A swarm of bees erupted from Hugh's bellows as he convulsed in laughter, and the other peculiars did the same, sans bees. _"They must've forgotten all about yesterday, or not thought much of it. Enoch'll be happy."_

Jake shifted once more to see the other boy through his peripheral vision, who was shifting somewhat uncomfortably and hiding his face by stooping over his plate and chowing down. He was somewhat surprised that Miss Peregrine didn't scold him for this bizarre and mildly rude behavior, but she has a strange intuition, almost a peculiarity in and of itself. Plus, The guy did skip breakfast. Still, it was seemingly unexplainable as to why Enoch was so sullen and brooding. Nobody bursts from the womb refusing to scream out of bitter taciturnity.

Jake only picked around his plate, but no one seemed to care, least of which Enoch, who, as soon as the crowd was excused by the bird, retreated to his den, presumably for the next six hours. In that time, Jake knew exactly what he'd be doing.

It wasn't the most savory of things to do, but he only had a few guaranteed weeks left in Cairnholm, and he knew that it would probably take upwards of eons to even begin to peel the first layers back on the sour onion that was Enoch O'Connor.

He would do... An intelligence survey. In other words, stealthy snooping.

 _"I can't just ask to go to Abe's room, I'd never under innocent circumstances. I just need to go."_ His mind was wracked with guilt, but no one would ever know, right? And besides, it was all in good will, to better understand the guarded young man.

He pushed the last wails of his conscience out of his mind as he turned the well-polished doorknob and shut the door between him and the rest of the world, just like Enoch. As he scanned the dark, austere room, filled with jars and strange tables and charts poking out of several anatomy and occult books strewn about, he didn't notice the tiny humonculus scurry under the door.

He didn't quite know where to start. Even though the entire room screamed "Enoch", it screamed his cold, hard exterior; nothing of Enoch's actual fiber could be seen, just as if you'd met him in person. Jake, however, had counted on this.

It wouldn't be under the bed- too obvious, nor the mattress. It, whatever it was, also wouldn't be hiding in plain sight, which is, also, too obvious. To quote Dwight Shrute, who would light up the small screen with his marvelous brilliance in sixty-five years, "It's always the one you middle-y expect."

Jake was trying to find the key to unlock the chamber under the neglected-looking wooden chair when he could feel the air being sucked out of the room by a slamming door and a sharp inhalation. Jacob held his breath, being that he was paralyzed, frozen in time just like the rest of them, and there was no air to breathe.

"God. You're just like Abe, except he'd dare you to wrestle or to race in exchange for a secret. He'd never literally pry. Boy, the bird would have your hide..." He trailed off, looking from the shelves on the far wall back to Jake, who was kneeling on the floor to see if the key was under the wastebasket, which was under the desk, which was right next to the bed, all lined up along the far wall. The room was really small, smaller than all of the other children's, but it wasn't like Enoch spent much time there, anyway.

Jake just looked up at him, still dead in his tracks, eyes wider than the base of the wastebasket he was still gripping. "Sorry?" He nervously croaked, quiet and quivering, as he removed his hands and drew them awkwardly onto himself.

Enoch just sighed in response and turned to face the jars on the left wall. "Just a favor, please? Be nice."

Jacob raised a thin, black eyebrow. Enoch didn't seem to be one to beg for mercy, nor bargain for it. Plus, he's definitely not in the wrong here. "How did you figure it out?"

"I've got eyes everywhere, Jake. There's a jar of them right here." Enoch turned away from where he was, staring at the shelves of various organs lining the walls, to face the still-floored Jake, a jar of tiny rat eyes floating around in all different directions in a bile-colored fluid in hand. "Your eyes would look quite pretty among my rather drab collection, so I do suggest you don't vex me."

Enoch's words seemed joking, but his demeanor was not, and Jake let himself shiver once he saw that Enoch had again turned to face the wall of organs. He selected a jar very carefully- a heart from the top shelf, third from the left.

Jar in his clenched fist, Enoch took a few long strides and crouched down to be only inches away from the other boy. For a few seconds, they just stared into each other's eyes- Enoch's calculating, Jacob's worried for dear life. The stare was broken, however, when, with his free hand, Enoch struck the cornered criminal before him, driving the back of his head into the ancient green-and-brown geometric-patterned wallpaper, leaving pink marks on his ivory skin.

His gaze didn't lift back up to the other boy, nor did he hit him back; He deserved that, fair enough. Enoch stood back up, as did Jake, prepared to leave the home, and Cairnholm altogether. It didn't seem that Enoch would tolerate his presence after this, and if he _did_  stay, he hoped the first thing Enoch would do would be to gouge his eyes out and stuff them in a jar, because he wouldn't want to see what would happen next.

The panic really hit him when there was a gentle hand on his shoulder, blocking him from exiting the cramped room. The only sounds to be heard outside of the distant laughter of the other children was the rapid beating of his own heart and his distressed breathing, softly jostling the fine hairs on Enoch's neck.

"Have a seat." It was cold and firm, and in the panic of the moment, the shaking boy complied, sitting down near the head of the bed. He was trembling out of more than just fear; adrenaline also coursed through his veins as he steeled himself to throw hands, if need be.

Enoch stood over the desk as he opened the jar, and at this moment, two things were on Jake's mind: _"What is he doing with that"_ and _"Let's make a break for it."_ However, he stayed put as Enoch fondled the dead tissue in his hands, making it squirm back to life. In just a few pumps, out popped, along with a good amount of putrid fluid, a key. _"Of course."_

Jake didn't question him as he retrieved a small parcel from the chair chamber and sat right next to him, legs brushing.

He shuffled through the first few photos, all of children at the house, just like Grandpa Portman's, but with different poses or angles. It's weird to think that Enoch keeps anything sentimental, especially tangible mementos, and even more so photographs of the children and the home, all of the above he seems to hate, or, in the very least, detest.

Finally, after quite a few Polaroids (which looked so odd to Jake, being glossy and new) his knobby thumbs stopped, holding the image of an unfamiliar face, still a peculiar based on the fact that she was in the middle of a grand trio with ghost players on a floating piano.

"She was the strongest peculiar I ever knew. Could move mountains with only her mind. And garlic. If she didn't eat enough garlic, her energy was depleted. She always smelled horrid." Enoch smiled gently and looked down to the slumping boy. The smile was odd on his normally-harsh features, especially after the events of today, but it fit, even if his eyes spoke of sorrow. It vanished too quick, however, never to make a permanent home on those crimson lips, but the sorrow stayed, strangely enough.

He just kept flipping through pictures of six year-olds juggling fire, a few inconspicuous peculiars of the mind, and one girl with humongous feet and a huge hoop skirt, not unusual for the time period all of these photos seemed to come from. "She had kangaroo legs," Enoch explained.

Soon enough, the montage had been completed, leaving only two more pictures of middle-aged, normal-looking people. "My parents," he captioned the photos before tucking them away, back into the chair.

"Do you miss them?"

"My parents? Not particularly. I don't think they'd miss me, either... I was an awful kid, absolutely wretched... We owned a funeral home."

Jacob chortled. "No kidding."

Enoch reciprocated this gesture, but somewhat painfully. "No kidding."

He poised himself to rise up from the bed and evacuate the room he should have never entered, but Enoch stopped him by standing in the narrow line of his escape route. "Do you mind?" He asked softly, eyes concerned and strangely compassionate. Jake quickly wagged his head as Enoch took a careful seat right beside him.

Enoch gazed over to the raven-haired teen to his left and, very gently, pushed him onto the stiff bed with a scratchy-starched duvet. For a fleeting moment, Jake feared things had escalated too quickly or that he was about to cross into the sweet by-and-by, but his fears were soon assuaged by an odd sensation: a hug.

He could feel slow, steady breaths from Enoch's nostrils warm his neck and his large hands soothingly squeeze his thin side. He wanted to say "I love you", but the boy was still too far away and the silence in the room was too perfect, even though the poodle-head needed to hear it from somebody. Instead, Jacob settled for gently fiddling with his thick, soft curls and holding him close. They both needed a hug.

"What happened to all those people?" He finally asked, after working up the chutzpah.

"They shifted through my shit."

 

 


	4. Prelude to the Afternoon of a Portman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :P
> 
>  
> 
> I feel like dan howell, updating as slow an erratically as a rabid sloth

The gentle woosh of Jacob's lungs slowly inflating and deflating and the spindly fingers fiddling with his thick, spiraling locks turned Enoch's eyelids to lead, and not too long after, the now-tranquil atmosphere of the room also lulled Jacob to sleep. Neither of them had gotten too much of it the night before.

...

"I'll go get them!" Millard shouted as soon as Miss Peregrine pointed out that the stranger and the strange boy he seemed to have taken a liking to were nowhere to be seen, and it was getting time to be the every-third-day evening's walk.

"Millard, do put on clothes. Please." Millard laughed and all the other kids groaned as he pulled a pair of trousers out from under a cabinet. He always kept his clothes in weird places, since God knows the last place he needs them is his closet.

Millard ran up the stairs, still barefoot, essentially stomping all the way in hopes of warning the two of his arrival. Once he finally reached the last door on the right, he pressed an invisible ear to the dark wood and, alas, heard nothing. " _Would I normally barge in, or would I knock? It is Enoch, after all..."_

Three quick raps and a "heyo" were responded to by a huge thud and a "What the F-", which soon turned into a muffled holler, more thudding, some irritated whispering, and the turn of a doorknob, revealing a murderous-looking, Poofy-haired Enoch with a bloody nose and Jacob beside him, looking sour with his arms crossed.

"He,,, he..." Millard nervously chuckled. Enoch replied with a grunt and clipped his shoulder as he made his way downstairs.

"Uh, sorry about that," Jacob hurriedly whispered to Millard as they tiptoed down the steps, about seven feet away from the bloody-nosed boy for self-preservation.

"What was all that ruckus?" Miss Peregrine asked, looking from Jacob to the general area of Millard's face to Enoch to Jacob again, lingering for a second longer at the boy with a bloody sock clenched in his fist.

Enoch sighed and rotated his neck to face Jacob, rolling his right shoulder as he did so. He sighed yet again, and that's how Jacob knew he meant it. "I'm sorry for body-slamming you. I panicked."

Having never quite been in this situation before, and because he was uninjured and not particularly grudge-holding, Jacob merely pursed his lips and nodded. He was about to walk over to Enoch, who was still staring at him intently, but he wasn't sure that he'd appreciate causing more suspicion. That's why he was shocked when Enoch hung back for him as the entire group left for the shore, holding his hand, in the rear, where no one could see them.

The silence was a bit awkward a good ways into the path to the western shore, but Jacob just squeezed his hand and walked on, occasionally glancing from his feet or the scenery around him to Enoch, who was always staring straight ahead of him.

 "Bread and butter," Enoch whispered and grabbed his hand again as Jacob crossed the bog, the last in the single-file line. A good ways later they reached the town, where Enoch dropped Jacob's hand and shoved his own in his tweed pockets.

 _"Mhmm. That's 1940 for ya,"_ Jacob thought. Through the minuscule village the bird's flock rambled, waddling like penguins to keep from rolling down the steep dunes. "Hey! Jacob! You coming?" Hugh was stripping to his shorts along with the few others and wading out into the salty ocean. Speaking of salty, that perfectly described the look on Emma's face. _"Should I head over, I mean, I don't want to intrude or make things awkward..."_ he also didn't want to overstay his welcome with Enoch, and, not wanting to further his probably really weird reputation, he followed Millard's tracks into the town, most likely to observe pigeons or something.

Before he knew he was kind of looking back at Enoch for approval, the other boy curtly nodded and returned to absent-mindedly pacing around a cave entrance, kicking around small quantities of sand with his head down, shoulders slumped, and hands in his pockets.

"Hey, Millard!" He loudly whispered, turning a few heads he hoped were unimportant to this intelligence mission.

"Oh, hi! I'm going to look at the Stephenson house today. You're welcome to peep in through a window with me," a voice popped out from a somewhat unexpected direction.

Jacob felt kind of like a creep, just staring through the corner of a stranger's window, but he supposed it didn't matter, given that this event would in no way affect the day after it, and Millard didn't seem to be the type to peep in on particularly interesting ordeals.

"In three seconds, that lady's going to put a slice of toast on the stove pan. She forgets about it for-oh, see, it's in the toaster, for 2 minutes and 31 seconds, and it burns on that side." Millard opened up a handwritten book and started reading from it.

 _"Of all the things you can do with all the time in the world..."_ Jacob grinned into the stone wall. Even if he had all the time in the world, and the perfect day to do it, at that, Jacob's father never would finish his debut publication.

"Hmm." Jake hummed in interest, and there they sat for 2 and a half minutes, watching toast burn.

"Now, look- she notices the toast smoking, picks up the pan to turn it over with a fork, but she dings her fourth finger against the skillet- ah, and overreacts, causing her to flip it into the floor, and, there! The beagle eats it! Today, I'm following the beagle around, specifically to see the consistency of his stool after this event. You're welcome to join me, if you like." The lack of a face didn't stop Millard from conveying his zeal.

Jake almost wished he were invisible so he wouldn't feel obliged to keep his face from the quizzical look he was keen to shoot, but he smiled politely instead. "That's neat, Millard. What time is supper at the house again?"

"5:45, never a second later! I wish I'd thought about company, since I don't have a packed lunch for you." He seemed a bit disappointed, but kept staring intently at the dog, who had sat down for a nap by the woman's icebox.

"Oh, well, I'll hang out with you until they're heading back, and then I'm going back to the present. Swore to my father I wouldn't be late to dinner," Jacob whispered, staring through the low kitchen window with one eye.

"Oh, don't worry about volume. The lady just left to get more bread. Weren't you watching?" Millard pointed into the house, which was empty, spare the sleeping dog.

Jake shrugged. "I guess I have a bit on my mind, that's all."

Millard laughed obscenely loud. "Yeah, you've got a bit on your mind."

Jacob raised and eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Mr. Nullings, Mr. Portman, there you are! Mr. Portman, a word with you, if you don't mind." Miss Peregrine stood at the end of the brick street, gesturing for Jacob to join her.

"I guess I won't be watching that dog drop a burnt deuce," Jake half-muttered to himself as he jogged off to meet up with the black-dressed woman, trying to come up with an explanation as to why she wanted him and only coming up with horrible scenarios.

"Mr. Portman, as you know, our kind is perpetually endangered. I've allowed you quite a bit of free reign, given the unusual circumstances, but I can no longer allow you to come and go as you please. We can't risk the loop being detected." Miss Peregrine sounded well-rehearsed as she explained the predicament to Jake, but not stale. It'd be impossible for her to sound stale.

"Oh." That's all he said as he turned his gaze from Miss Peregrine to the ever-sunny horizon. His life was boring, but eventually, this would become boring, too. Besides, he doesn't want to hurt his family, even if he seems to be a low-rung priority. However, there was Enoch, and his peculiarity, while it didn't help him fit in, was very useful...

"I do know it's a hard decision. I'm giving you one trip, to the present and back, but no more." Her voice was both sympathetic and stern, as it always was.

"I'll most certainly think about it," he murmured. And with that, Jacob nodded his head and shoved his hands in his pockets, walking back to the shore from some privacy to mull over his multitudinous concerns.

The thicket was deep around him in the small crevice of the dune, and he ducked a little lower just to conceal himself further. His black hair must've still been visible in the yellowish-green grass, since Enoch worldlessly hiked up the hillside and stood about three feet away from the other boy, who was still ignoring him. A second later, he sat on the rocky soil where he stood, a wall of brush separating the two.

A few minutes they sat before Jake wormed a slender hand through the vegetation, which was almost as thick as Enoch's hair. When he reached him, he flipped onto his side to make as discreet an impression in the grass as possible and worked his head into his lap, nose gently poking into the other boy's stomach, who cupped his face and gently stroked his hair. If it could stay this way forever, Jacob didn't think he'd mind.


	5. Holding On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit out of Jacob's character, but love can make you do pull some crazy fast ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Challenge: try and guess the song references and name the poet I quoted :P

Jacob sighed as he stood up and brushed the sand from his britches. No matter what, he wouldn't just go back home and pretend to be normal, cowering from all adventure and risk. It might not be the wisest decision to stay here and pretend to be extraordinary, forcing himself to fight hollows or Emma or whatnot, but that was the decision he made. There's some things that, after seeing, you can't go back, like the rocks with names long forgotten by anyone else painted on them in Yiddish, sitting patiently in your grandfather's lawn as the sky cried down on them, or your tipsy aunt half-humping your knee at your mother's birthday party. This was one of those things. 

That being said, he couldn't just leave with no explanation, and the thought faking his own death wasn't quite soothing. Eloping with a near-stranger was improbable, to say the least, and he didn't want anyone sent off on a wild goose chase. No matter which angle he looked at it, though, it was bound to be unpleasant. In the end, he decided to pretend that the bog man had told him to sacrifice himself for the sake of some random pagan deity. After all, everyone thought he was crazy, anyway, and it was believable in that bodies claimed by the bog are rarely found, sunk deeply into the soggy earth. 

He didn't realize he had a death grip as tight as the pickle he'd worked himself into until Enoch lifted his eyes to him from the pack ahead of them and softly asked, "What's wrong?", gently rubbing circles into Jake's hand with his thumb.

Jake didn't realize his breath was shaking until he was trying, and failing, to form a reply. "I-I've got to f-fake my own death," he stammered, whispering. 

"Hm. I can't say I can help you there; I was kicked out. Not like I quite cared about them in the first place, but I did miss all those dead bodies to mess around with." Enoch looked up to his hair, drooping across his forehead. It was as dark as chocolate, and Jake weakly smiled at this comparison, knowing that the boy wasn't nearly that sweet. Enoch vacantly contorted his lips and aimed a huffing breath at the curl in question, futilely trying to part it to the side of his face.

They'd stopped right outside of the cairn, unlike the rest of the troop, ambling onwards through the bog to the home. "Let me help you with that," Jake softly murmured, using a shaky hand to fix the offending curl.

Enoch faintly smiled and layed his hairline onto Jacob's, tenderly pulling him into another hug. After pressing a comforting kiss into the other's forehead, Enoch sighed and, still smiling, stepped away and into the bog, leaving Jacob to complete the surprisingly difficult task of turning his back on the world.

The Priest Hole smelled of sweat and horribly cheap beer, and though it was hard to see due to the dim lighting and cigarette smoke, Jacob spotted his father in the far corner, illuminated by the light of his computer. 

"Hey, kiddo," Franklin Portman looked up from the inevitably ill-fated book to his son, standing awkwardly by the table, where he was trying his best to seem casual and failing. Jake never was good at that.

He returned the "Hey" as he took a seat in the black-stained stool, which was somewhat wobbly, just like Jake's trembling self. He tried to keep his hands under the table to conceal it, and it worked. Soon enough, Franklin redirected his attention to clacking away at his keyboard, occasionally slowing to eat a bite of fish or chips, wiping the vats of grease off on his sweater before returning his hand to the keyboard.

After an intensely fried meal, which included a fair deal of muddy beer for Jake's dad, the two retreated to their ramshackle lodging. As soon as Franklin passed out on the couch, it was Jake's turn to write complete garbage. It only took ten minutes to come up with a disturbing story of self-sacrifice to the bog man himself. It took maybe three to gather all his stuff into his suitcase, and to took about 30 seconds to muster up the courage to turn the doorknob.

He left the rowdy priest hole unnoticed, at least hopefully, and there he stood for a few moments, on the darkened street, wind nipping at him softly. It was almost too dark to see where he was going, the island only illuminated by the faint glow of candles through the windows of the scanty cottages. Perhaps it was out of practicality, or perhaps it was out of fear that his father would soon wake, or that he was being pursued by a wight, or perhaps he just hadn't been breathless enough the past few days, but Jacob Portman did not go gently into that good night.

For whatever reason, he bolted towards the home, bag hugged close to his chest. He grinned like a maniac when he thought of how, just a few days before, he'd been running just as crazily in the opposite direction for the opposite reasons. Maybe he was a maniac, but that didn't matter. They were all mad here. 

When he reached the home, he was glad he’d ran. 

The muffled sound of crying and the odd pattern of lantern lights through the windows, paired with thunderous thumps, alerted Jacob that something wasn't quite right. By golly, if this was his fault, that the loop had been raided in the first place, it most certainly wouldn't be his fault that it was successful. 

Jake never was very athletic, and he especially wasn't so right now, his lungs burning with every leap in his sprint towards the tool shed, his ribs being crushed by the weight of the situation. The adrenaline gave him a stamina like he'd never had before, and, though his mind was scattered and none of it was dedicated to his personal affairs, he had just a fragment of the thought that Abe Portman would've been more than proud to call him his grandson as he gathered his breath right outside the door and tiptoed up the stairs, pitchfork in hand and crossbow strapped to his back, steeling himself for a stealth attack. 

He choked back his pants as he neared the second floor library, where a wight he recognized to be Dr. Golan was throwing his weight onto the quivering door. His white eyes were shut tight as he tried with all his might to blow down that wall, but more than good architecture would protect the piggies from the big, bad wolf tonight. Jake made no sound other than just the slap of his tennis shoes on the floorboards, charging towards the wight with the pitchfork drawn like a bayonet, just as his grandfather might've done. He didn't weigh that much, and he wasn't that strong, but there was more than that driving him as the pitchfork impaled the wight, pinning him to the hardwood floor. 

All was strangely silent, spare his own exhausted grunt, as Jake removed the pitchfork from the murderer’s torso (there were children, in there, after all) and staggered into the library, collapsing as a horde of children surrounded him.

…

“Mr. Portman? Are you alright?” Jake could see the blurry outline of Miss Peregrine rub her neck as she bent over him, trying to see the boy without her glasses. His mind was as fuzzy as his vision, if not, more so, but he vaguely remembered seeing a caged bird in the hall when he speared Dr. Golan- that must've been Miss Peregrine.

“Yeah,” Jacob croaked, still fighting against the hand that pinned him down to sit up.

“No, dear, relax. You're safe for now. I can't thank you enough, Mr. Portman, but do rest a while as we get our affairs in order. It's a sad thing to say, but we've got to leave our beloved loop. Thanks to you however, we’re all alright, and that's all that matters.” Miss Portman was sitting down beside the bed he was in. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was.

Jake didn't remember being in Enoch’s bed, but there he was, snuggled under absurdly stale sheets. “What, wh…” he didn't get to finish his thought, falling back to sleep almost immediately. 

Jacob was completely out once they got the phone call. 

“Abe! Goodness, this is quite odd, but we do need your help. Because of a bombing a bit earlier today, we had to make this random day a loop. I know you were probably just about to go to bed, but our loop’s been raided, and we need a quick getaway. Can you help us out?” Emma picked up the phone for once, not ignoring him out of bitter hatred. As much as she wanted to chat, she knew that there was business to be done, and Abe would be the one to do it. He would have always gone to the ends of the earth for any of them.

Abe knew enough of loops to know that what was earlier for them was actually later for him, so he went to his superior officer, a Welsh man himself, and bent the truth a bit by saying that all of Wales was being destroyed and that they needed to act, and now. That sergeant would move heavens and earth for any one of his family members, especially the lover he'd left behind, and that's exactly what he did. 

“Have Miss Peregrine speed towards the bombing, or run it back, whichever. Carry only what you can bring on your backs. We’re coming.” Enoch, hearing this news, smirked as Hugh was forced to drop the bath mat, calmly walking away from his post where he was silently telling everyone just how stupid they were and into the locked back room. 

Everyone had forgotten about the boy that had been dead for ages, but Enoch never did. Ignoring the ruckus of the house, Enoch held a somber ceremony of digging a shallow hole in the ground and letting Victor, his best friend, down one last time, using the wight-bloodied pitch fork. It was a hard task without a shovel, but Victor would've wanted it this way- for once, they were victorious. 

Enoch wiped some dirt from his hands and thought of the letters and notes in his pocket, smiling to himself cynically. He was right to keep pictures of this place around. This, too, had ended, yet he had not. He could be in the ground with Victor, and in some ways, he wanted to be, but he wouldn't give up. Not tonight. Not ever. It wasn't because he was a coward that he had kept holding on- holding on, like how he had gripped the pitchfork in his hands as he pried into the cold, dark earth; holding on, just as Jacob had done to plow through that wight. It was because he was stubborn and strong, and after all this time, he still had stamina. 

Enoch buried the pitchfork and his best homunculus with the long-dead shell of a boy he used to know and love before marching into the house through the back door. He picked up a crying Claire in the kitchen and carried her to a point of safety from the oncoming disaster waiting to happen, dirty hands soiling her pink dress as he held on, white-knuckled.


	6. We're Gonna Build a Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm gone to New York this week! I worked in one word of polish to this :P proud polish American lol (I'm adopted)

Nobody could remember a time when Enoch lacked military expertise, so the entirety of Miss Peregrine's once-great empire followed him onto the feild behind the house, a field big enough for the landing of a plane and bordered by the sea, in case of a naval rescue. He kept Claire balanced in his arms and faced the house, watching as the last body staggered out and into safety, sitting down beside Enoch. It was then that Miss Peregrine sped the loop forward, catapulting the fortress that had been on the precipice of of existence for quintilions of moments longer than the blink of an eye to wipe it all out, to let the house finally burn in the Hell that it had so long avoided, to light the once-safe haven of outcasts in the red glare of raging destruction. It was by the light of the blaze that she saw it: a curious ripple on the water. Her hand unconsciously tightened on the shoulder of the young man who might as well have been her big brother.

Enoch didn't want to expose Claire to face the senseless desecration of the only home they'd ever known, the cruel ending to a long era of happiness and serenity, but he spun around too quick to think. He saw it to, but unlike Claire, it was obvious to him immediately: a U-boat. The thought had crossed his mind, sure, but he didn't expect it to actually happen, just like any gruesome figment of his twisted imagination.

"Miss Peregrine!" A few tears had fallen down her cheeks before, thinking of the loss of the yard to play in and her dolls to play with, but as Enoch shouted, little Claire started bawling, and no one could blame her. There was nowhere to run; the field was bordered by an ever-growing wall of fire, and there was nowhere to hide, the only obstructions being the burning shell of a bomb and a bog darker than Enoch's heart.

As all were frozen with fear, trying to keep low to the ground, Fiona ran towards the bog, wild hair seeping into the nighttime sky as it flew behind her. When she could touch the bark of a tree, she stopped and whispered gentle, urgent words only for the woods or Hugh to hear.

"Follow Fiona!" It was an order that made Bronwyn's heart break, knowing that she could not be there to protect Olive and Claire, as she always promised she would, but she knew it was better for them to part; she was needed on the front line. She had a boulder in hand, and wasn't afraid to use it.

Jake still had the crossbow, but it was too dark to see anything but a silhouette, which hadn't yet appeared, and his hands hadn't stopped shaking after his great feat of strength. "I can't believe I did that."

Miss Peregrine's sharp eyes were trained onto the vessel like a falcon, well-prepared to shoot anything that so much as looked at her kids the wrong way.

The noise of fire eating the land, the distant engines of planes, the constant bass of bombs landing on the green earth, and the treble of the youngest childrens' sobs drowned out the groaning of wood and the rustle of leaves, but it did not go unnoticed. Before long, a barricade of sturdy foliage spanned the island and partially ensconced the smallest children. Fiona's ever-dirty hands were resting now, poised to pounce, for if anyone who would dare burn a single leaf of her garden were to step foot onto the craggy shore, she would strangle them remorselessly with creeper vines.

The wight aimed a gun at a random point in the bark barricade, but it was pointless to shoot. Nothing could be seen. All it took was one expert shot by Miss Peregrine to end the wight, and a celebratory boulder throw, complements of Bronwyn, sunk the bird-forsaken submarine.

Everyone there new that it wasn't safe in to stay, but no other place on the island, especially closer to the sea or on its level, would provide protection, and for now, the fire was at a safe distance, almost comfortably warm, like a hug. Just like the hug Enoch was giving the shaking boy, barely strong enough to lift his own arms as he leaned against the Great Wall of Fiona. Jake half-smiled, considering that this encounter was easily more enjoyable than the humid bonfires he'd suffered through on a few sweltering Floridian nights, but he couldn't even have a moment of peace. A pulling feeling in his gut threatened to tear apart him from the inside out, and the rapid beating of his heart swelled into his throat. " _We're not in a loop anymore. A hollow is near."_

"I-I t-think there's a h-hollow here," Jacob stammered quietly, but loud enough to be heard. Loud enough to make everyone worried, especially him, who wasn't nearly in fighting condition.

"I know. Wights always come with hollows. Check to see if it's behind us, and keep a look out. However, as it is, the only thing we can do is wait and prepare to fight." Miss Peregrine was ever level-headed in these situations. After all, it's better to face these kinds of things with a sense of poise and rationality.

Jacob craned himself around, almost worried that the action would make him implode judging by the excruciating pit in his stomach. He was staring at the coast, looking for just a glimpse of the beast in the dim moonlight, when he heard a shot coming from the bog to his right, and soon the throbbing of his stomach began to slow. Every ward held their breath as a tall figure emerged from the woods. Even though it'd been scores for most of them, apparently just his outline and the way he walked said enough: that man was none other that Abe Portman.

"Come along! Ze boat is vaiting on ze eastern shore." Jake smiled goofily at the fact that his grandfather's accent was huge and dorky, much more so than the subtle one he remembered telling him outlandish tales that were too fantastic to believe, and yet, were somehow true. Jacob dug around in his pocket just a second to feel his phone. "This is real. You're alive. You're here right now."

Enoch grabbed both of Jacob's trembling hands in his own and helped the boy first to stand, then walk. It had only been about a month for Abe, and he turned sideways as he witnessed this, but still couldn't understand. "Enoch, ładny? Enoch, nice? To a stranger?"

He stopped them as they were brokenly hobbling into the woods. He'd never been too shy. "Who're you? Is your peculiarity being charming or somezing? Vhy does Enoch like you?"

"No, long story, but I'm your grandson from the future. I have the same peculiarity as you, and I don't know why in the world Enoch likes me." Enoch, having let his guard down for a fraction of a second, giggled like a school girl. In an even smaller fragment of a second, Enoch's face went stone cold as he let go of Jacob and let him fall flat to the ground, walking off into the bog as if nothing happened.

Abe turned around to watch him leave, but quickly crouched down to grab his...grandson. "Uhhhh, I'm sorry, he's, uhhhhh, quite a 'titmouse', Emma vould say..." He picked up Jacob and helped him to his feet again, must stronger and sturdier than Jake could ever remember him being. He walked them out of the path of all the other people, and as soon as they saw this, they sped up to allow them some privacy.

Once everyone was reasonably out of earshot, Abe, visibly trying to keep it cool as he held his...grandson close, looked at Jacob with what almost seemed to be a concerned expression. "You probably know, I keep secret vell. Are you... not liking girls?" It was a whisper at the end, and Jacob tensed, partially because this made him uncomfortable and he wanted to blast, but also because he knew that, if he answered honestly, he might just get dumped on his face again. Would his answer change his childhood? Jacob never was good at lying, and was too tired to try or even think of it's implications.

"Yeah I do, but that's not what you're asking." It was strangely confident and affirmative, almost foriegn to Jacob's meek tongue.

"Alright." It was also strangely confident an affirmative, and with that, they started off to the bog. "Do you mind?"

"Do I mind what?"

"Never mind, I vill change your diapers later." Abe didn't even wait for consent as he roughly grasped Jake's drained legs and ran, full-speed, into the bog. Jacob's bleary eyes were blown wide as he saw the island rapidly disappear from over Abe's bronwyn-ly strong shoulder, which he was currently using all of the very little of his remaining strength to hold onto for dear life. However, unlike Enoch, Abe didn't let Jacob down, even as the terrain got tricky and the slope got steep. Eventually, they ended up in a large boat.

"Uh, thanks." Jacob was trying with all his might to avoid eye contact with his grandfather as he handed him over to Bronwyn.

"You're velcome." Abe pursed his lips into a tight smile and nodded curtly before taking off in the opposite direction.

Jacob wiggled free of Bronwyn and clung to the steel wall for some support, much too embarrassed to be dependent on a little girl. "Weirdo," he muttered to himself once they'd inched on a good ways and Abe had disappeared down the bend.

Jake couldn't see him, but he could hear Abe laughing hysterically. "You not talk about your grandfazer like zat, fairy!"

Jake may not have been moving fast at all, especially when he heard him laughing, but he stopped in his tracks. His heart might've stopped, too. No footsteps could be heard reverberating through the dark, low halls, except a single, hesitant one in his direction. After that, Jake just kept inching along, definitely not keen to let Bronwyn help him. He could feel her wide eyes on him as if they belonged to a hollow, glancing up nervously and frequently, but Jake didn't pay it any mind and, even though they were moving at a snails pace, they reached where the rest of the gang was. " _Bronwyn won't tell. She's too caring... or would she?"_

The entire group was spread out along the floor, nearly silent. Enoch sat in the corner, alone as usual, staring at the wall without any feeling on his face. Jake just tottered over to the opposite corner of the same wall and curled his knees to his chest, trying to look casual but knowing that it wouldn't take a psychic to figure out something was wrong. In the end, he was too tired to fight pulling at his slightly fluffy black hair and hoped it'd just make him look more tired.

"Are you alright?" Emma had tried to keep away from him for the last few days, but now she wasn't an inch away from him, staring at him softly.

"Yeah, I'm 'alright'." Jake almost regretted the sarcasm in his voice, but didn't. An evil smirk played across his lips that would make even Enoch intimidated, but Jake was glad, for the sake of his plan, that his smile was hidden by his knees. "Yeah, I'm alright. I just thought I'd made a friend in Enoch, because I rarely do find a friend, but then he tried to pull this creepy homo-sexual, just weird, really weird stuff."

Emma gasped and put her hand on Jacob's back, which made him jump at first, but then he settled into the warmth. "What exactly did he do?"

"You don't really want to know. But it didn't go far and I stopped it. That's why I bloodied his nose earlier today." Jake was suddenly realizing the implications of what he was saying, and was now panicking in his own mind. However, he just kept his head on his knees as Emma pulled him into a comforting hug. Her head was nestled into his sweater, but Jake looked to the other boy through the corner of his eye. There, Enoch was the one pulling at his curly hair, and, like several there, he, too, was crying. He was just doing a better job of hiding it.

Seeing that he'd probably overheard or seen what was happening, Jake had to stifle the prickling behind his eyes, stopping the cascade of tears that would fall from his face out of guilt. And yet, as Miss Peregrine announced "lights out" and Emma curled into his side, he just held her tighter, like that old "little tiger" that always smelled like too much cleaner from where he'd wet the bed. " _It's better this way, anyway. We're too different kinds, better off without each other.... heck, it'd even be doing Enoch a favor, getting people to steer clear of him, and now I'm less distracted, I've got more time to hollow hunt or whatever..."_

 


	7. Naut Much to Do on a Boat

The strong incandescent light tried to burn Jacob's eyeballs as he squirmed himself awake on the solid metal floor, but the slender hands snaked around him did a better job of that. "Ow!"

His yelp finally jerked Emma awake, who opened her steely grey eyes to see a dozen sly ones staring back at her, strangely cheery-looking, considering all the horrendous events of yesterday. " 'm sorry 'bout that," she yawned. " I tend to be a bit hot in the mornings. That's why I require flame-retardant sheets."

"Uh, no problem," Jacob rushed, getting up a bit too fast, adding to the overwhelming dizziness in his head. Miss Peregrine was sitting up as ladylike as possible on a cargo box, reassuring a fretting Horace. Maybe a good night's sleep wasn't what he needed. The faint traces of dark around his eyes, following in the footsteps of Enoch's perpetual raccoon eyes, said as much. Just out of curiosity, Jake looked to the Enoch's isolated nook out of the corners of his eyes. Once he saw he wasn't being stared down, he allowed himself to face the other boy, his face to the wall, tucked safely into the shadows. His Scottish sunglasses seemed a bit darker today.

"Mr. Portman?" Jake was pulled from whatever dark corner in his mind and turned back to face Miss Peregrine, rubbing his shoulder, still sore from impaling a wight, being dumped on the ground, being wrestled through the woods, and spending a night on a cold iron floor with a human firecracker tucked under him. " _I'm worse than Grandpa. I'm using her,"_ he thought, closing the distance in between himself and Miss Peregrine.

"Is there something I can do to help you?" Her omniscient eyes seemed to see something concerning, but it wasn't hard to reflect the textbook image of fret on the surface of her deep, brown eyes.

"Uhm, not particularly," his voice was thick and cracking like the burnt brownies his mother failed to master back when (or forward when) she was the soccer mom of the week. Thankfully, that didn't last very long at all. "I was just wondering, am I stuck in 1940? Can you get me back to the present?"

"Oh yes, I could, as could any loop entrance with the proper care, but I do hope you stay. You're very well needed here, Mr. Portman." Now her eyes, staring up at him through horn-rimmed spectacles, were almost scolding.

"No, I didn't intend to leave, not yet, but I just wanted to know if I could get back. Thanks." He sauntered off. It was probably a bit later in the morning than Miss Peregrine normally woke her wards, on account of last night's ordeals. Franklin Portman might soon awaken from his drunken stupor, Jacob not to find. It wouldn't have been too abnormal, considering Jake had been quite distant throughout the vacation, and Jake had even made up some junk about bad phone reception out in the bog, so when he wouldn't answer the phone right away, it wouldn't be that distressing. By dinner that day, it would be undeniable that something was wrong. He could imagine him then, his father, climbing up and down the cliff sides with strength he never knew he had, birding binoculars plastered to his face as he peered out over the restless sea, where the victims of the bog sometimes wash up, their bodies the same bluish-gray color of the sky that stretched over Cairnholm, flesh as soggy as the bog itself.

Jacob almost smiled when he thought of the only other person in this horde that would think such gruesome thoughts about death, the boy in the corner. _"O' Connor in the corner. O' Connor in the closet. O' Connor, my Connor."_ Maybe it was just slap happiness, but he definitely grinned. His legs almost carried him to that corner just then, but he thought better of it.

Jacob, however, noticed that Emma was nowhere to be seen, which was his primary reason for keeping his distance from Enoch. So, in a predictably unpredictable change of plans, Jake strode towards the other boy, sitting about two Bibles away from him for safety.

For a minute, there he sat in silence, Enoch still staring intently at the wall, as if caught in some waking dream. Or nightmare, knowing Enoch. "Did it hurt?" The other boy finally broke the silence, his voice raspy, as if all the things clawing to escape his threat had torn gashes in it.

"What? Falling from heaven?"

Enoch smiled for the first time in what seemed to be ages. "I panicked. I'm sorry." He turned from the wall to his hands, folded tightly into his squeezed lap, starting to pick at the rough skin. Jake reached out with his own, smoothed hand to stop him, lingering for just a second before pulling back. Enoch wouldn't want the suspicion.

"You seem to do that a lot. Panic." His voice was soft, rolling off of the olive skin stretched over Enoch's sharp skeleton, just inches away.

Enoch grinned again, visibly trying to keep from picking at his calloused exterior. "I do." He paused, rubbing at his hands, stopping as he looked back to Jake, and then back to his hands. "It's not that I care what they think, you know, about... you know. It's just... I don't want them to know. I don't want them to know I care."

"You'd prefer it if you didn't care. If you didn't love. But now you've got to hide your tracks." That much had been obvious to Jake from the start. Enoch never cared what anyone thought, not in a long time. He'd tucked that away a century ago, along with his feelings, for the most part. He did, however, care what they knew, and if they knew anything, they knew too much. Jacob knew too much, way too much. Enoch trusted him, he did. _"And what did I do with it?"_ Jake kept his eyes to the door, keeping a look out for Emma.

Enoch simply nodded, his eyes still to his hands, which Jacob was staring at. That's why Jacob didn't notice Emma coming down with a cart full of breakfast. The rations had been prepared for the bunch, but Jacob and Enoch's were about to be super toasty. Jacob, smelling deliciously baked cardboard, looked up, eyes full of terror.

Emma swung around the line and half-jogged into the remote corner. Jake sold and scuttled back as Emma tore Enoch from the floor by his hair, singeing off a few mahogany curls in the process. Enoch had collected himself in a few seconds, and while he did wince, he made no sound, and the pained expression left his face as suddenly as it came, staring into Emma's steel eyes with mettle to match. "We were just having a chat. I haven't done anything," he spat.

"Is this true?" Emma turned to Jacob, fingertips pressed to Enoch's chest, a blue flame dancing not a centimeter from his baggy woolen sweater.

"Yes, everything's all right. We're friends now." Jake could almost feel himself relax the tension in what little muscle mass he had, but he soon saw the suspicion in her eyes, and he knew it wasn't directed at Enoch now.

Emma removed her hand from Enoch's chest, snuffing out the flame in her fingers and bending over to retrieve the crispy rations she'd flung to the ground. "Fine. You like boys, okay, sure. But you've got weird tastes. But I guess you two suit each other." She threw the rations to Jacob, who failed to catch one, even at the distance of three feet, watching it clatter to the floor.

"HEY, YOU GUYS!" Emma shouted, British accent making the phrase sound weird to Jake, but he didn't have time to ponder that fact. "ENOCH AND JACOB ARE IN LOVE!"

Some of the crowd look bewildered, especially the children. Miss Peregrine shot a look to Enoch, who returned it with pure horror. Hugh had to call back a scouting party of curious bees.

Invisible fingers snapped. "High time. But guess I did have a bit of... insight." Now Enoch looked like he was fit to murder, and Jake choked back a few chuckles. He didn't mind. Not now.

Horace gave a quaint smile and nodded. "You all do seem a bit disproportionately shocked, given the circumstances. You don't have to be a prophet to figure that out."

Enoch's eyes were wide as he scanned the crowd, lips pursed. "Well that's that," he muttered, but in the silence, everybody heard it.

"Yes, Mr. O' Connor, that's that. Eat up now. This is probably the last sausage you'll have in a good while I'm afraid." And, because her word was law, that was that, and returned to essentially normal.

"Sausage? I thought it was cornbread." Jake prodded a low chuckle from Enoch.

"B-rations. Better than trying to eat a jarred intestine. Much better. I was locked in the cellar of the funeral parlor, and it came alive in my mouth, and started squirming..." Enoch looked up from his already-empty tray to Jake. For the first time in over a century, the boy with an appetite of a growing teen was actually growing.

"Really?" Jake plopped the sausage mush down on his tray.

"No. I may have been twelve, but never in my life have I been stupid enough to eat an intestine filled with formaldehyde."

"Thanks. Now I definitely have the willpower to make myself eat this." Jake was pushing around the sausage on his plate with his finger. His fork was still too hot to use.

"You're going to eat it." Enoch puffed his chest a bit, which, combined with his command, made Jake smile.

"I am?"

"Yes, or I'll make you. You need your strength." And that was that. As much as Jake wanted to see Enoch make him, he didn't dare as he forced the slime down his gullet, which was especially hard to do when grinning like a fool.


	8. Never Letting Go

"We'll be at Miss Wren's loop until we find a new location for our own loop, one that will hopefully be even safer than the last. If any of you all have any suggestions, I'm open to listening to them." Despite the fact that they couldn't see him, all the children cleared a path for Millard by instinct. "Millard, you know polite persons do not casually converse in the nude." No response. "Millard?"

Claire gasped. "We've forgot MILLARD!!" Bronwyn reached out to hug her before she became completely inconsolable.

"No, no. His case is right over there, and nobody but him would carry that lug, especially last night. It's full of books." Hugh was leaning up against the wall as nonchalant as humanly possible at this juncture, feet crossed, fingers playing with Fiona's bird's nest along with a few little black and yellow buddies. After all, he is half bee, and bees don't care what humans think.

At this, Claire relaxed a bit. "But where is he then?"

Hugh just laughed, quickly sucking back the handful of bees that escaped. "Where would he be? He's snooping, for sure. Must've snuck out when we weren't looking."

"Snooping? Me? No. Well, yeah. But not now. I had to go relieve myself." The iron door swung open easily but slowly, watching for people, and a patch of fully-dressed air came through, a hat floating on top, about a hand shy of Enoch's height. Since this boat was full of a special force of peculiars, it wasn't any trouble to walk around without a face or hands, even though he still did get a few glances.

"Have you started thinking about loop locations?" Though no one had ever seen his likes or witnessed him to purposefully work out, he must've done it either when no one was looking or in plain sight, since Millard picked up his suitcase with no trouble and walked over to Miss Peregrine, setting it down with a huge clunk.

"Yes, indeed. We were discussing it while you were out."

"Hey, Millard, before this conversation gets to deep, I've got a question." Jake spoke up from the corner of the room, where he was about five inches away from Enoch, despite the fact that they'd both been pretty much unequivocally outed by Emma about an hour before.

"Shoot." He sounded fairly amused.

"When you pee, can you see it? Can you see yourself?" The crowd started laughing hysterically. Even Enoch smiled, and maybe he was imagining it, but Jake could have sworn he saw the air where Millard's face should be going red.

"Well, my urine is visible, yes, but I can't see myself. What a... unique question. Coming up with unique questions is the art of discovery, so I do applaud you. Well, anywho, as I was saying, I've been thinking on it some, and I've got a good location for a loop: the Falkland Islands." He opened up a large map, and pointed to a blank spot off the coast of Argentina. Evidently, even the cartographers forgot about the Falkland Islands.

"Hmm. Remote. I like it. I just wonder if the Wights would be thinking of the most remote places to be." No more was said as she clicked her tongue and reached into the suitcase, pulling out the map of days and flipping through it as if it were a catalogue for pipes or black dresses.

"I have no clue," Jacob whistfully sighed, head slightly lolling into Enoch's personal bubble. The other boy just gave a short hum and nodded before heaving himself off the floor with unreasonably conditioned abdominal muscles and striding out the door. " _He's probably going to use those rock-hard abs to drop a duece,"_ Jacob thought, smirking. Enoch hadn't left the vicinity of the corner for almost eleven hours. Come to think of it, so was Jacob. At the risk of being seen as a little sheep, he, too, evacuated the room in hopes of evacuating his bowels.

A hand caught him by surprise as he turned the corner. He jumped and tried to scurry back, but the hand, belonging to Enoch, overpowered his minimal reflexive effort. "Oh, I-uh, didn't see you there. You startled me." Jake rambled, fueled by some old rations that had seen the floor and adrenaline. For a few good reasons, he knew he was dead meat that would soon also see the floor, up-close and personal. Five had a death grip on his shoulder, and two were staring into his soul. _"Oh boy. Knew that wasn't the end of this."_

"I knew you'd follow me, Portman." Enoch tugged on Jacob's slender arm, urging him in the direction of the bathroom. He didn't fight it, instead only sputtering, his eyes blue as the ocean surrounding them on all sides and just as wide.

Soon they'd reached the dimly lit bathroom, conveniently empty except for the two, who were now in the last stall. "Turn around while I piss, Portman, and keep your head in the corner. I won't say I'm mad, but I am most certainly not pleased." Jacob just gulped and did as he was told, the whirring of the gears in his brain drowning out the sounds of water sloshing around the outside of the boat and other water sloshing into a toilet bowl.

The toilet had flushed, but Jacob didn't dare turn back around. At least the corner could protect his face and vital organs. _"He isn't mad, though, apparently. God, I'd hate to see mad..."_

The stall had been silent for a few seconds before a heavy sigh was let out. "You can turn back around now." Jacob did so, unconsciously backing himself further into the corner. Another sigh, and Enoch turned to face the right wall of the stall.

"Why did Emma know?" The boat wasn't the warmest, given that it was September twelfth and made out of solid steel, but Enoch's words were chillier, curling around his throat and stopping his breath like the slimy tendril of a hollow.

Even though he couldn't breathe or justify his actions, he spoke anyway. He didn't dare not to. "I told her."

"Why?"

"I was mad."

"So that's what you do when you're mad?" Enoch turned back to face him. "You go and tell secrets? You go and-and burn... you..." His plush lips were pursed beyond recognition, and that's when Jacob knew he was fighting tears. Tears over the a century in the making.

"Yeah, I know, I'm sorry. It'll never happen again, I swear on me nan's grave." Jake decided to joke around. Just a bit. "Listen, I know I went out and, betrayed your trust, but if you half-carrying me to the woods was some kind of trust fall exercise, we failed epically." His eyes were the light, watery blue color of tears, but his voice was lighter and happier, almost smiling.

Enoch almost smiled too, but it broke before it could reach his dark brown eyes. "Do you trust me?" He whispered.

"Yeah, of course I do. More that anyone." He didn't want to ask the question. It was always a pet peeve of his when people asked questions they already knew the answer too, but just didn't want to admit it. "You don't trust me."

Maybe under different circumstances, if he trusted Jacob less, he'd have squared his shoulders, puffed his chest, and coldly affirmed his assumptions. But because those were not these circumstances, he rounded his shoulders, slumping in on himself, like he'd implode. Jake tentatively shuffled forward, only a few feet from the other boy, the one whose eyes were transfixed on the floor, tears defying gravity. "I do. That's the problem."

It took the most courage Jake ever needed in his life to step forward and hug him. Enoch's arms were hesitant to hold the other boy at first, but once he was holding on, he would never let go. Jake's thin fingers stroked at Enoch's wool coat, his head leaning against the one pressing into his shoulder, a shoulder that still wasn't damp. Jake didn't speak. He knew it would be impossible to overcome all the hell Enoch had been through and spoken to firsthand in just a few seconds, especially with only words, but right then, right there, it was the closest to okay than Enoch had been in a long while, even though he felt like he might shatter into a million razor-sharp shards, cutting one of the last people he cared about to ribbons, the last person to care about him, to believe in him, besides Miss Peregrine. She couldn't count. Right then, right there, he had Jacob to lean on, and that was all the strength he needed. He held on to Enoch even as the tears between them made it slippery. He would never let go. He wouldn't dare.

 


	9. Run, Rabbit, Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dog got my tongue, plus I was busy, but no longer! Except for the busy part :P

The gentle lurching of the boat was almost enough to make Jacob sick, but he tried to rationalize it with the soft heaving motion of Enoch's chest. _"Just a little while longer,"_ he reminded himself.

It was, in fact, just a while longer before a dull groan aching from the hull back towards the room full of peculiar children stirred them from rest. "Oh, thank the bird, my bees are restless." Hugh stood up from his nestling spot by Fiona and took a big stretch, contorting himself in the effort not to yawn, but he finally succumb.

"Hugh! You couldn't have waited just ten more minutes?!" Olive grumpily swatted at the jazz-loving flier in front of her face, cranky from tears and a lack of sleep.

"They couldn't have waited ten minutes!" His sigh told the world that he, too, was exasperated and exhausted, but he sucked it all back up, quite literally. However, this seemed to be only a temporary fix. Hugh's normally Ireland-white face had turned shamrock green and- aye, there she blows.

"HUGH!" Everyone groaned in unison, except Jacob, who was still quite too fascinated to be annoyed.

"Children, children, settle down. Hugh can't help it, and they're not going to hurt you. And, Mr. Apiston, your bees will be quite appreciated in our temporary place of lodging, with Miss Wren." Hugh smiled a toothy grin, and a bee that was hovering near his ear divebombed in.

"Oh, Daniel, quite the homebody." Jake chuckled softly. He is the "homebody". To all these other people, peculiarity was normal, but it still hadn't lost its novelty to him.

"What's so special about Miss Wren's loop?" Jake leaned over to whisper into Enoch's ear, but just as soon as the muscles so much twitched in his shoulders to indicate a shrug, they were interrupted.

"You shall find out soon enough, Mr. Portman," Miss Peregrine nonchalantly answered, backs turned to the two quiet boys in the far corner.

"It's a loop for peculiar animals!" Millard, despite forever loosing the day he hadn't absolutely, completely, entirely catalogued yet, seemed to be in a good mood about their destination.

"I didn't know that was a thing," he smiled.

"Of course you didn't. Are you a prophet? Can you see into the future?" Horace was worming his way up the wall, trying to be as neat and proper as possible, despite the distinct wrinkles in his best suit. Even though he was his own idea of slovenly, his snootiness, magnified tenfold by the crankiness and fear, more than made up for it.

The crowd so resembles molassses in the way they were corralled through the halls that they may or may not have blended in to the metal walls of the ship they were exiting. After a good amount of twists and turns, all were lead onto a ramp connecting the high dock to the mainland, a wild forest, a home only to Fiona, one that decided to sting their eyes as a welcome. If Jacob could have opened his eyes against the intense beams of sun raining down on them after a few days in the hold and a good amount of time in the moodily gray Cairnholm, a lot of which was spent in the artificial night of Enoch's lairs, he might've seen that his half-hearted Florida tan had dissipated a bit. However, as they wound their way through the forest, his eyes were trained on his feet, and as he scaled the stone, his eyes were fixed on Emma, right above him, trying to draw on her immense strength and knowing that Enoch was at the base of the rock, prepared to make his last moments as pleasing as possible in the event that he were to fall, which was all that he could really hear, his muscles screaming at him. Perhaps he was, at least partially, a prophet. "Let's hope not."

Eventually, every last peculiar had dropped into the crevice in the rock, and, after a bit of swimming, they were in the forest once more.

That's when he finally took his eyes off his feet or his now-pruned hands. That's when he saw it: the hollow.

The swimming had zapped his energy and his breath supply, but the adrenaline mustered up the dredges of his constitution, allowing him to shout "HOLLOW!" which sent the littler children into a frenzy, the other kids into a panic, and the creature into a fit of pique. "Everybody stay calm!" Jacob's words seemed to convince the crowd to simmer down, but his own insides were bubbling with hollow and horror.

"Yes, Mr. Portman is correct. How far away is it?" She sounded as casual as afternoon tea, but her eyes spoke with a much different tone.

"Down in the crevasse, but it knows we're here and I don't think we can out run it." He could practically feel the foul breath of the hollow curling around his throat, even if it was still a good ways' away.

"That just means we'll have to outgun it, Mr. Portman. For now, we are going to run as quickly as possible up the mountain to bait him, and then we'll shoot him when he thinks he's got us cornered."

"Are you sure that's a good idea? He really will have us cornered." It was bounding up the mountain with three huge tongues.

"There's a wall that protects the menagerie, and if we can cross it, we would be at quite the advantage." Perhaps it was the new hollow-hunting instincts that were burbling up inside him, or the old ones that were trying to claw their way out and to safety, but Jake didn't think that was such a good idea. However, Miss Peregrine did have over one hundred years more experience than him, the little boy trying to fill big shoes, shoes that had called him a fairy not 24 hours ago...

Jake forced himself to snap from his thoughts and keep his eyes on the road ahead as they bounded up the mountain. "Road" was a generous word, and path would've been as well. A few broken twigs here and here gave hints that a deer might've traipsed the rugged terrain earlier in the season, but it was no help. Bronwyn, too, struggled against gravity, in another direction, Olive tied to her waist. Claire, however, weighed her down, so that might've helped her a bit.

Jake thanked the Lord he never quite believed in for his long legs, which gave him leverage and decreased the number of his steps. However, as long as they were, they were no match for hollogast tentacles, which were about to ensnare the entire group. "AWW F&@$!!!"

"MR. PORTMAN! I do understand that you are distracted, and you just ran full-face into a stone wall, but such language is not to be tolerated!"

"I'm sorry, guys." It was a rushed apology, but for now it would have to do. Hollows don't give time-outs.

"Alright, then. So, where is it, Mr. Portman?"

"It's coming up the mountain right now. We've got 20 seconds, tops." Even though he wished he had a harpoon of some sort, a paintball gun would have been very welcome, as well. If she weren't blind, Claire would probably have been more qualified to get rid of that hollow, at least in his whirring brain.

"Now, Miss Elephanta, let Miss Bruntley hold on to your waist. On the other side of the menagerie will be a rope with a net, and you should throw it over, Miss Bruntley, and then tie her to a loose rock." Miss Peregrine's eyes were scooping around her children rapidly, almost showing fear.

"Miss P, I can see it now." He fought the urge to step back from it or stutter over his words as he looked the beast in its cold, dead eyes, leaving blood the color of vitriol and gasoline. Instead, he cocked his fists at his hips, as if he were going to do something. " _Catch me ousside, how bout dat?"_ He muttered it under his breath, almost chuckling as he watched Olive strain to lift Bronwyn over the seventy-five foot stone wall, watching it barely toward them all in a soup of legs and tentacles.

For some reason, however, the words that had just bairly tripped from his lips didn't seem to be human at all, but another entity entirely. For just a second, the hollow quit thrashing about with its toungues and held them stifly below its face, eyes unobstructed, as if to get a better look at the group he was about to devour. To get a better look at Jacob.

The pause was short-lived and avenged sevenfold when the beast again lept up on all sevens, this time intent on one, and one only. Jacob.

Why did he do it? No one knows. Not even he knows. When you're in the moment, right then, right there, the only thing you know is that there will never be that moment again. There will never be another shot. You don't think of what the book would say. What your mom would say. Your grandfather, even.

"PORTMAN! STAY HERE!" In her haste, Miss Peregrine dropped her normal respectful formality. Even she had no time for that. Still, it was too late. Her words fell on deaf ears; Jacob's had already shorted out, the adrenaline pushing it towards the places of most vitality. It's not like he would've heard, anyway.

For the second time in his life and for the second time in 48 hours, Jake didn't wait for Google's split-second input. There was no time for that. The only thing that occurred to his cramped cuts, swimming in adrenaline, was _Run_.

And Run he did. Perhaps it was because there was nothing behind him, nowhere to go. That's what skeptics would say. In reality, it was because everything was behind him- Enoch, Olive, Claire, Emma, Hugh, Horace, Bronwyn, Miss P, Fiona, Millard. He didn't run towards them, not with the beast coming for him.

He ran straight away, just a hair to the right of a slobbery tongue, just a hair from certain death. But he kept running. His bird-like legs were quite unlike those of Miss Peregrine, unaccustomed to anything but the neat sidewalk of Floridian suburbia, and he was sure that at any moment, they would flail and end up in the stomach of the beast as he raced down the steep mountainside.

A single hair is a million atoms in width. Though he wasn't quite pondering such things at the time, Jake knew that cute little tidbit from an introduction to AP Chemistry PowerPoint. If that could be considered a million degrees of separation, he would've been the safest person in the world, but he wasn't. Right now, this hollow was his sparring partner, but hollowgast always play for keeps. Suddenly, he almost wished that even his kidneys were on Enoch's shelf in his bedroom, because anything would be better than the inky grave of a monster's stomach. However, better than both those things would be the warmth of Enoch's arms, and that made him run that much faster.

Even though his brain was on the brink of collapse, so were his lungs and his legs, he had enough sense to know that he couldn't run forever. No one can, except hollows, who've been on the run, in the hunt for blood for a century or better, but they can hardly be considered people, they're so far removed. No normal, or peculiar, mortal can outrun a hollow, and no one can outrun fate, not forever. All you can do is turn to face it, and hope for the best. And that's what he did.

As soon as his feet stopped, a tendril was wrapped around his foot. With blurry eyes he fumbled for a twig. If he had any time to, he would've laughed. He must look quite rediculous. Like a little boy fighting a huge fight against and imaginary monster, armed with a twig. Boy, didn't he wish those monsters were still imaginary to him. But that would mean that Enoch, too, where imaginary, and that just couldn't be. Not now, anyway.

He could see the big blur of hollow and feel the foul breath rolling out of its enormous mouth, but his eyes were still too blurry to see into those of the monster. Still, he remembered the quote plastered in formerly-fluorescent comic sans letters on a poster from c. 1998, 58 years from the colllaosed loop, one of many tacked to the walls of his eighth grade history teacher: " _You miss 100% of the shots you don't take."_ As so he took one.

If luck were some sort of nonrenewable resource that is set from birth, Jake must be getting near to its exhaustion. But, by some miracle, his luck tank was not yet empty. Sure, it could've been better. He could've been in the Smart-Aid right now, building the Taj Mahal of pearly white toilet paper. But a twig right into the eye? That was pretty good. That's two seconds more life, right there.

The hollow immediately dropped him hard onto the ground, but he hit it running, now encumbered by the steep slope. In the time it took for the hollow to collect itself, he'd gotten a five-second head start.

Speaking of Smart-Aid, that's when it came. Why it came in the form of a boxer bounding down the hill on stumpy legs, pistol strapped to its back, Jake would know at a later point. Right here, right now, his mind was too blank, and he didn't care. The dog met him halfway. That's all he needed.

The pistol was cleverly strapped to his back such that it took a nanosecond to pull out, and he hadn't a nanosecond to spare. It was cocked and ready. All he needed to do was pull the trigger.

Using the last remains of his brain function, he waited. When the hollow swept him up once again, the dog lept up as well. _"Stay!"_ He commanded, but yet again it was the language that sounded like nails on a chalkboard. The hollow did as he said, but the dog ignored him, rearing up and pouncing into the steel wall that was invisible to him.

He didn't want to tarry, but he couldn't let his negligence throw away his shot. "I meant you, dog, stay," he whisper-yelled, the only sound in the dense forest, easily heard over the hollow's shuttering, enraged breath.  
  
"That's stay, Addison, please." Jake couldn't process it or the growling from eight feet below him at he hollow was giving him whiplash on the way to its jaws. He was focused on one thing and one thing only: _don't throw away your shot._

The blast made all of the birds in the forest run, all except one, and the consequential thud sent the dog, Addison, was her name, scurrying to. Apparently, hollows make O.K. crash pads. The first thing Jake did was slither his way out of the beast's tongue, relaxed in death.

He was covered in black slime, but it was a nice effect when combined with the gentle breeze considering how hot he was from the sheer intensity of his actions. Refreshing.

He figured that the worst was behind him as he watched the hollow's black blood trickle down the mountainside, but he reconsidered this judgement once he felt sharp talons sinking into the back of the shirt. " _Oh, shit, now..."_

" 'm'sorry," he rasped, almost glad for Miss Peregrine keeping him upright.

"That's right, you're sorry!" Addison, the dog who, apparently, could talk, chose to shout. "You almost got yourself killed! I mean, it was noble, sure, but good bird, man! For the love of peculiardom, you are lucky there's no dog as sure-footed as i in all of Wales, especially one whose got as much knowledge of 'this terrain, which I've been memorizing for 132 years!"

Jacob started to say something, but dropped it. "What's wrong? Dog got your tongue?"

 

 


	10. Consisting Mainly of Gaelic Curses and Facepalming Unconcussed Heads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh well I try

"Oh, well, uh, yeah, Addison? Addison's your name?" The leaves crunched under his feet at half the pace of his bounding heart.

The dog seemed pacified by the hospitality, but only somewhat. "Yes, it is. What's your name? Half-wit?"

"No-"

"Nimro-oww!" A robin-like bird pecked Addison on the head, probably Miss Wren. Either that, or a random bird could understand him too and had, for some unfathomable reason, taken a liking to Jake. Strangely enough, Occam's razor dictated that the bird was, instead, a human. Still hard to believe.

"Jake. My name's Jake," he panted, eyes to the ground out of what was almost shame and a fear of slipping.

"Well, Jake, brave and noble as that was, it was reckless. Your eyes are no good dead." He was speaking quite civilly, but Jake couldn't help to feel a bit barked at.

"I find there's quite a thin line between brave and stupid."

"No, I'd say there's a rather thick one, but it's just murky. Almost as thick as you are. Do try not to cross it." Now he was definitely being barked at.

"Now, now, that's enough of that. Mr. Portman was just trying to save our souls, and he did, indeed, succeed, thank heavens. I'm sure by now, Mr. Portman, that you're at least aware of your feel bredth of ignorance, or are you ignorant of that as well." Jake turned around and stumbled over his quivering feet, but he saw Miss Peregrine, hair mussed and feet bare, but otherwise quite neat and clothed.

"I'm pretty darn aware," he mumbled.

"There, that settles it. Now you've just got to deal with your peers, goodness, did they have a fit. Mr. O'Connor, who seems to have taken an unprecedented liking to you, went running in what I can only assume was a blind rage and, I tease you not, dived face-first into a tree. Then Emma was after you, and I flew over the wall as quick as possible, summoned Mr. MacHenry and Miss Wren, and then we were on our way. Mr. O'Connor literally knocked himself out!" Quite uncharacteristically, Miss Peregrine broke out into sunny laughter, making Jake crack a smile too, even though he felt terrible about giving his love brain damage.

"Alma, what's gotten into you?" The raspy, old voice of Miss Wren was smiling behind them.

"Oh, dear, Balenciaga, you've just got to see this boy, my word, oh, I just..." Miss Peregrine was finally getting a hold of herself.

"A century of teenage moody broodiness?"

"It's beyond that, I'm afraid." Her voice took a more somber tone. "He's always been ill-tempered, to the point of being asocial, but he's got a sweet side, always has, beneath it. He just keeps it locked up, for safety, you know, one of those types..." Miss Peregrine never seemed particularly talkative, but when it came to her children, her pride and joys, no matter how constantly cranky, she loved to chat.

"And that's why I refuse to deal with all of those little, ah..." her knobby fingers were grasping the air in front of her as if she could find the word in an invisible filing system.

"Boogers?" Miss P suggested.

"Yes, indeed, boogers. Never have been one for people. Bless you, Alma."

"It's what I love to do! Now speaking of love..."

Jake winced and couldn't think of why he'd jerked his head around in the aftermath of the whiplash, but, once it hit him, his blue eyes opened wide and he quickly jerked his head around again, causing a grunt of pain that probably wasn't going away anytime soon.

"How'd you get over the wall, again?" His words bounced off the stone wall, and both times were useless. He just didn't like the obvious answer.

"Climb into that net- oh, I suppose Miss Wren and I will go turn to birds behind the trees, there, and then you can take our clothes into the net, and meet back up with us when you get on over the wall. I've told Miss Bruntley to wait there; she can pull you over."

There were too schools of thought in that moment. The first was, "It held all of these people; it'll hold me too." And the second was, "It's just waiting for one more idiot to climb up into its twiney jowls and see what happens." Old Jake could've mulled over this for centuries and then politely declined the opportunity, but whether it was his newfound courage or fear of the ymbrines, he climbed on in to the net after scooping up Addison, gently, and the clothes.

Bronwyn definitely could've slung him on up there in three seconds flat, but that had a good chance of killing him. She could also go slow and gentle, but most boys don't take especially kindly to being treated as if they're delicate, outside of Horace, and though they're probably of the same breed- despite Horace's insistent denials- Jake didn't seem like the kind of guy that wants special, girly consideration. However, he may be hurt, and--

The net was moving at a pretty good speed, quite smoothly up the wall. Jake would've turned his head to enjoy the view if he didn't still have whiplash and he didn't think he were apt to vomit. He just held on tight to the ropes straddling his behind and looked up, doing his best not to look Addison in the eyes, either for shame or the fact that it was just bizarre to look a dog with glasses in the eye.

The ride didn't take too long and then Jake and Addison were over the wall, Bronwyn's Herculean arms hugging Jake's still-searing rib cage bit overzealously. "Don't do that again, promise!"

"I second that, Miss Bruntley." Jake would answer them if he weren't being accidentally asphyxiated by arms of steel. "Alright, Miss Bruntley, I do think that's enough. I can't see well in this light, but I do think him purple."

He was breathless as he stumbled from Bronwyn's hug, but he still managed to sputter out a "thanks" and "yeah I promise."

"Insincere, but I suppose that's for the best. Let's get going, you two. I'd say our friends waiting at the menagerie would prefer we not dilly-dally another second." It was quite dark, but her falcon eyes still managed to glare at Jacob, plain as day.

The walk was silent, but not for long. The quiet plodding of their footsteps trotting up hill was taken a-storm by stampeding boots coming from above.

"Aren't you glad there's no trees around, Enoch?" Smart-Apiston, Hugh.

"Enoch, I don't think that's smart, concussions can be quite serious, though that may not be what this is. It's a wonder you have a brain-"

"Wha- MILLARD!"

If you've never seen a concussed boy try to fight an invisible friend who is just trying to incapacitate said concussed boy for his own protection, it was a hoot.

"No! Where are you! Show yourself, ye coward!!" His Scottish accent was thick slurred with rage and brain damage, and Jake did his best not to chuckle.

"Chill out, Enoch."

The concussed curly-head whipped his head around, winced, and looked Jacob in all 16 of his whirling eyes. "'Chill out'? 'Chill out'? What the devil's that supposed to mean?"

Jake was about to smart him off until he realized that a) this dude had a concussion. b) this dude wasn't quite in the wrong here. c) this dude probably doesn't actually even know what "chill out" means.

"Just relax, Enoch. I'm sorry, but I'm fine, we're all f-"

"Oh! Relax! Isn't a soul tae tell me tae 'relax'! That made every bit as much sense as your cold thing! Tell me to relax!" His normally sullen and deep voice had risen and sped up in the excitement such that it sounded like the last few minutes of "The Bee Movie but Every Time it Says 'Bee' it Gets Faster," which won't grace this world for another 40,079,520 minutes, or 76 years, 2 months, 13 days, or about fifty years past Enoch's natural death, tops. Jacob was doing his best to keep from laughing, but he ended up pressing his right canine a bit too hard into the soft flesh of his lip while Enoch continued to yell at him. Jake didn't dare take his eyes off him, but in his periphery the peculiar, embrynes, and a good number of non-human spectators had gathered.

"AND LOOK! You're bleeding!" Enoch took a wobbly step towards Jake, but he closed the distance befor Enoch could fall and bust his head again, which had an impressive impression of a tree trunk on Jake's left-hand side.

Enoch was about a foot away from him now, looking at the side of Jake's face like he was confused. He probably was. "I'm sor-"

But instead of being cut of by more enraged yelling, this time he was cut of by a soft peck right to the bleeding corner of his mouth.

Jake let it happen, and Enoch seemed pacified, but Jake hoped to dear bird that Enoch was too whacked up to remember that, or he'd be infuriated that he'd done such a thing in public, and Jake would get the blame, no doubt.

Jake, for a split second, debated yelling out an explanation that Enoch wouldn't have done it if not concussed, but he was afraid that Enoch might be more keen to remember it if a fuss were made, so, instead, he mustered the last of his strength, draped Enoch's largely limp arm over his shoulder, and tried to follow the troop at a reasonable pace, which was increasingly hard as he tried to steady the increasingly less-conscious, heavier boy.

"This way, Mr. Portman. You can skip the tour, for now. I'm sure Mr. Nullings will be delighted to tell you everything and more," Miss Peregrine started giggling again, like a schoolgirl, which may have been where she first became acquainted with Miss Wren. "Oh, Baincaga, my invisible one, oh, it cracks me up, very erudite indeed, but my, when it comes to absorbing information, he just doesn't know when to stop! He's probably qualified to give that tour- but don't worry," she added. "He has excellent manners. Mr. Addison and he should get along famously."

As soon as they got to the base of a large stack of wood with a house on top, Jake wished he would've left the Enoch-hauling, who was now almost completely out, to Bronwyn.

"I'll go up into the tree house and let down the lift. I do hope you had enough sense to know you weren't going to lug him up this lookout, but judging off your previous actions..." she trailed off, curling her. Lips into a smile. "I'm sorry dear, I was just teasing!" Jake smiled weakly. "Tough crowd," she muttered.

A wide plank of wood was lowered from the porch from a pulley, and after Miss Peregrine and Jacob heaved Enoch onto the board, Miss Wren started heaving him up.

Wordlessly, Miss Peregrine started to scale the log tower. Jake took a hesitant step towards her, but wasn't sure that he was welcome.

"Mr. Portman, if you tarry down there any longer, I should say that Miss Bloom will find you and set you alight, and I dare say there's a lot of kindling around." Jake needed no more motivation.

The climb was a little rough around the edges, quite literally, but he survived, surprisingly. The cabin on top was just as rustic as its exterior, and, laying on the spare cot in the corner, was Enoch, wincing at the dim light and murmuring something unintelligible as he squirmed around. Jake half-chuckled. _Gaelic curses._

Miss Peregrine was standing over him as Miss Wren fetched a dark bottle and a metal spoon from one of the cabinets lining the walls. Once she was done with this task, Miss Wren obscured Jake's view of Enoch's head, pouring over his noggin. Topical treatment for a concussion?

"What's this?" Miss Wren asked softly, plucking at something in Enoch's usually intimidatingly-neat nest of curls.

"HAHAHAHAHA!" Miss Wren broke out in gales of raucous laughter, holding a twig between her thumb and forefinger. Enoch howled along, reminding her to be quiet. "Oh, dear, I'm sorry, yes..." she patted his cheek rather vigorously, earning her another half-conscious whine as she turned to whisper towards Miss Peregrine.

"We'd like you to go now, Jacob. We've got old ymbryne methods to heal him, but we need privacy. We're sure he'll be fine. Just go down and find the others, bless you. We'll tell him that you were here, when or if he wakes up-"

"BAINCAGA!" It was a quiet yell, but a yell nonetheless less. Miss Peregrine was scandalized, and Jake's eyes were blown wide open in worry of Miss Wren's words and disbelief of Miss Peregrine's uncharacteristic reaction.

"Oh, yes, dear, I'm sorry, I've got a wacky sense of humor, quite morbid, really, I'd say you're friend here would appreciate it. Necromancer? Looks the type. Good day, now. Shoo, shoo." Jake could've used more motivation to leave the bedside of the guy who sustained a concussion for love of him, but he knew, with his un-concussed brain, that it was for the best. He just held on for dear life as he scaled his way down the wooden lookout tower.

He backtracked a fair ways until he came across a depressed swath of grass, leading to a green barn with and opened door, where the peculiar children sat amongst peculiar animals around a table, some of their mouths as agape as the barn door, some with smiles as crooked at its hinges, and others with lips pursed in rage. _Here goes nothing._

 


	11. all I do is win win win no matter what

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trust me you'll think the title's hilarious if you read this chapter  
> I'm not funny tho  
> But still
> 
> Sorry for not posting my phone decided to explode but I'm back bErRiEzZZzz

  
"Is this butter?" As Jake neared the barn door, he could hear Millard asking in the polite, well-ordered silence.

  
"Almond butter. Maisey the milk cow has been on strike since I reclaimed my typewriter." Millard only sighed at Addison's words. He's allergic to almond butter. That sigh, however, was cut off slightly short by Addison's sniffing. "Do come in Jake. One mustn't linger at the door."

  
Every eye turned to face him as he sauntered into the room on shaky legs, but none seemed to be burning in anger. He could tell that Emma's stony grey eyes, though wide and concerned for a few moments, now conveyed just a general disdain, even though she was doing her best not to look his way, a task amplified in difficulty by the fact that the only seat available was the one directly across from her.

  
After Jake had fixed himself a plate and started chowing down on the vegetarian food, Claire put down a carrot that she had been nibbling on with her backmouth, despite the action's probable futility. "We all thought you were going to die for us like Jesus."

  
Bronwyn flicked her on the shoulder with probably 1/75th the strength she could put behind it if she so wanted. "Claire Bear! That's impolite! He's a Jew! Apologize."

  
"I'm sorry you're a Jew," Claire answered sweetly.

  
"Claire!"

  
Jake didn't care- truly, he welcomed it, because he was almost falling out of his chair in laughter, in no small part because he was so punch drunk with exhaustion. "It's okay," he chuckled to Claire after he had wiped the tears from his eyes. "But for future reference, just steer clear of religion in general when you're talking to strangers." 

  
Jake had every intention to follow his own advise, seeing as he had declared himself unreligious years ago, not unlike many of his disgruntled peers. Now, after all that had happened in the past few days, the good that he'd stumbled into and the bad that he'd stumbled through triumphantly, he wasn't so sure. It seemed, truly, that no other way than the divine could have brought Enoch and him together, in many more ways than one.  
"But you're not a stranger. You're one of us. You're Abe's grandson."

  
"One of those is true. Another is half-true. The final is blatantly false." Claire's face screwed up in concentration as she tried to work out the puzzle.

  
"Ah, I see you've begun the noon repast," declared Miss Peregrine as she strode easily into the barn with dirt floors, posture fit for Buckingham Palace, as always. "How quaint," she smiled, looking down at the cyan table crowded by food and the grimy faces of her precious children sitting in mismatched chairs, illuminated by the yellow light of kerosene lamps. "I do say you all are in dire need of a bath."

  
"I agree wholeheartedly!" Horace exclaimed, abandoning his normal demeanor of detached uppity-ness in such passion.

  
“Well, after dinner we can head towards the guest house to get freshened up. That's where we’ll be staying. It will probably be quite strange and small to you all; before retirement, Miss Wren ran a sort of correctional ranch for young, wayward peculiars. I think you may remember me mentioning it, for all I used to threaten Mr. O’Connor and Mr. Bruntley with it.” Faces that were once cheery now turned more pensive and sullen, and you could tell Miss Peregrine wished that she could eat her usually well-measured words.

  
After just standing there awkwardly for a second, Jake stood up, grabbing his plate to offer the peculiar matron a seat. “Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Portman. You've sacrificed much too much today already, I'm afraid,” Miss a Peregrine said in response to the gesture, moving over to the wall of the barn to pull over a barrel, which was apparently full of dry corn, prompting Bronwyn to stir from her seat and pull up the barrel to the already-cramped table. “Oh, thank you so much Miss Bruntley. I do say, I have quite nice children.”

  
With the motivation of a bath, which only quiet, bird-like eating Fiona would detest, and the curiosity of the former-juvie-facility as a temporary home, the crowd finished their meal in record time. Miss Peregrine of course insisted that they help clean and pack up the dining equipment, but with so many hands, it went quick, and then they were hiking down into the valley on the far side of the mountain.

  
It was similar in construction to the watch tower, with the exception that it wasn't suspended on a stack of logs and was slightly larger. Slightly.

  
The troop huddled into the small and sparsely decorated main room, which obviously tripled as a kitchen and dining room. “Alright, children. So we've established that this is very scant accommodations for a group our size, but we will gratefully make do with this, which has so graciously been loaned to us. That door on the left is the girls’ bunks, and the second is the boys’ bunks. There is a well not too far from the front door, where we'll have to draw our water, and there's an outhouse out back. My residence is the loft above this level, which is accessible by the staircase outside. Mr. O’Connor is currently resting in Miss Wren’s watchtower, but he shall be well on the morrow at the latest and will be joining us here.”

  
Jake was imagining what kind of horror movie they were about to get into, zombies and all. “ _Millard’s going to have to sleep with a mace at night. Too bad we don't have febreeze in whatever time loop we’re in-_ “ Suddenly his thoughts we’re cut off by Claire’s squeaky little voice, at least eighty years old, but not a day past six.

  
“But how's that going to work?”

  
“He can still walk, dear, even if he's a little wobbly for a day or so. He hit his head on a tree, don't you remember?” Miss Peregrine looked down at petite Claire, the only peculiar (other than Jacob) that Enoch ever hinted he gave a bird turd about.

  
“I remember. But where are Jake and him going to stay? One can stay in the boy’s room, and the other’s a girl, but I don't want him to be in our room. Well, I wouldn't too mind if Enoch were to stay in our room, but I don't think Enoch or Emma or anyone else would take too kindly to that. Enoch doesn't really take too kindly to anything. But Enoch’s not the girl, right? That's Jake. I don't think I'd mind that too much either. Now that I think about it, the only one that would mind is Emma. Do you mind, Emma?”

  
“I do to mind!” She began to raise her voice, but tempered herself before she started to breathe fire.

  
“Now, now, I don't think that's how that works. They're both still boys. Now, that said, you do raise a rather good question. Mr. O’ Connor, being of his nature, will probably make himself as scarce as humanly possible. At any rate, it's not so much about impropriety between Mr. O’ Connor and Mr. Portman, since both of them, at least when they're in their right minds, tend to be too private to openly display such affection in front of any audience. It's about if any of you other boys are uncomfortable with having them amongst you. Is that the case?”

  
When Miss Peregrine finished up, Jake just looked awkwardly away at the log walls of the small, windowless room, acting like someone had just picked a urinal too close for comfort. The other three boys just looked back towards each other and shrugged. Well, Hugh and Horace visibly shrugged, and everybody just kinda assumed that Millard did the same. “I'm naked all the time,” Millard piped up. “I'm shameless. Besides, we've got an outhouse.”

  
“Yes, I do suppose that both of those things, though begrudgingly, are true. And Mr. Nullings, winter is coming,” Miss Peregrine mentioned, quite stark. “I do suggest you at least start wearing clothes regularly, or else you'll be miserably uncomfortable when it's too cold to walk around in the nude. And don't think that I didn't take note of the fact that you dined earlier in the nude. I do understand, however, because of our swim to get here.”

  
“Well, I'm sorry, but that settles it, doesn't it? They're both staying in the boys’ room?” Millard shifted around, probably uncomfortable at the mention of wearing clothing.

  
“Mr. O’ Connor might prefer to stay in a barn, but yes, I do believe that's for the best. Miss Wren might not want him in a barn of hers.”

  
“He may swear he grew up in a funeral parlor, but I'd say he'd be more at home in a graveyard itself,” Hugh jibed with an Irish lilt.

  
“Mr. Apiston! Well, that's enough of that. Are you alright with this situation, Mr. Portman?”

  
“Oh, uh, yeah. I'm cool. No monkey business. Enoch probably won't be a fan, though.”

  
“I dare say the only thing he's a fan of is dead or you, and you best beware you don't join that other category once his strength has returned. Well, I'll leave you all to wash up and change. There's basins below the sink. It's a good thing we had to pack light; there's not room for much of anything. Thank goodness we brought the bathmat, or else some of you'd be washing outside.” And with that Miss Peregrine strode out, probably to fix herself up in her own loft.

  
The basins below the sink were of the Victorian variety, dating back to an age in which running water and bathtubs were the frivolities of the rich. Decent-size metal bowls were paired with crude metal tankards. There were only eight sets, so a few, Jake concluded, were going to have to wait there turn, which didn't take too awful long.

  
The suitcases that they'd carried had gotten a little wet, so they just set their clothes to dry. The ship didn't have bath facilities for them, but they'd had time to change that day. Jake thought, slightly annoyed, that his modern clothes would be completely dry by now, but the sweater he'd borrowed from Enoch wasn't that bad. His pants were another matter, since Enoch was a good bit larger, but he'd bummed off of lanky Hugh. Those, despite the wading and the climbing and the sweating and the fighting, were relatively dry and clean. Waxed cotton.

  
Amazingly, Enoch’s sweater was still in good condition, if not a little sweaty. Jake didn't really have the skill or knowledge to clean it properly with the washboard and soap, but he decided that it'd be a nice thing to do. He put on the modern shirt that he'd been wearing the day he killed the wight and went out to get some water to wash the sweater.  
He was about to wash the sweater, looking confusedly at the lye soap and awkwardly shifting around the sweater and washboard when Horace walked in, overdressed as always, especially for a farm, but with wet hair and patting his face with an ostentatious satin hankie. “Jacob! Oh, the servants always did that when I lived with my parents, and we never really had to in the loop since the clothes were always the same every day, and honestly that sweater would do this world a better service if it were in ashes, but I do declare that you're doing it all wrong. Here.” Horace draped his coat over his chair and showed Jacob the mechanics of using a washboard, which wasn't at all what he really expected.

  
“Thank you, Horace.” Jake expected him to leave in the little time it took him to scrub the itchy brown sweater, but he didn't. He just fixed up his cuffs and donned his coat once again, staring at Jake from behind. “What is it, Horace?” Jake almost regretted asking the question, since if Horace had something to say about his future, he definitely might not want to know.

  
“Oh, nothing, nothing. I'm sorry if I disturbed you.” And without his normal warm smile, he walked straight out the front door onto the soggy ground, leather shoes gently padding across the wooden floor.

  
Jake didn't know Horace all too well, but he knew something was troubling him, and he had to go outside anyway under the pretenses of hanging the sweater to dry.  
Horace was a suspicious distance away from the clothes line, pacing back and forth, staring at his shoes partially due to the fact that his head was too heavy with thoughts to hold up and the fact that he didn't want any mud on them. It didn't take Jake anything to get the sweater to the line, but he'd forgotten clothes pins. The day wasn't too windy, so it should be fine, but he couldn't say the same of Old Horace.

  
“Are you alright?”

  
This time Horace sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets, something a gentleman like himself would scarcely ever do. “Before I came to live with Miss Peregrine, in the months before my parents were lost at sea, I had dreams of the house. Just due to the nature of my peculiarity, I didn't know of my parents’ impending doom, but that's another matter. I knew of Miss Peregrine and of some of her wards- Millard, Enoch, Victor, Bronwyn, and Olive. I also knew of Hugh and Fiona, and I knew they were two of a kind, made for each other. I've had dreams before of Millard, the invisible boy, finding love. Don't tell him though, or he’ll drive himself into bedlam trying to find it. And I've even had dreams of you, coming to our loop, and the love between you and Enoch. It's strange to think such a callous boy is capable of that, but apparently it's true. I never do have dreams that are about me and my future in general, but usually dream of what's around or what's coming, so even I may never know. But I'd say a boy stuck thirteen forever has slim pickings at romance.”

  
Jake just smiled, and remembered all the weird hormones starting to surge through him at thirteen. Not even Horace was above that. “Well, nobody ever does know, no normal, at least. I know it may seem like it's been a long time Horace, and it truly has, but you've got plenty of time to wait, provided that we can conquer the wights. That's our top priority right now.”

  
“Oh, yes, quite right! I was just thinking on it, some. I suppose it's just one of those days, now that the day is different for the first time in eighty years.” The pep was, strangely, back into his step as he strutted of to the guest house. That is, of course, just a manner of speaking. The gaits of gentlemen do not bounce with such uncouth.

  
At this point, Jake was growing a bit anxious to see Enoch again, but he didn't want to disturb him. He also didn't particularly feel like being good company at the moment, so he just set off to go sit somewhere in the woods bordering the guest house yard, somewhere deep enough in so that he'd be just as invisible as Millard.

  
The guest house, once a home for delinquent peculiars, was surrounded by a five-foot barbwire fence. Noticing this, Jake just sat his hand down and looked out for a second, into the dark woods, listening to the sound of twigs crunching and the ocean crashing and birds calling. Speaking of birds, a pigeon swooped down upon him just then and gently poked his hand, and then once more. “ _That's probably his job, little guy. To peck them if they try to leave._ ” Finding his escape attempt less-than-enthusiastic, the pigeon just sat on his arm, and for a second they just looked at each other, the pigeon staring deep into his soul. When the pigeon took off from his arm, Jake, in a stroke of madness that was running on the duration of a business week with no end in sight, decided to follow it.

  
See, this was no ordinary pigeon. These pigeons could look into your soul and know exactly what you need, without overthinking it. All pigeons, peculiar or no, really don't have the mental capacity to overthink things, anyway.

  
The pigeon lead him all over the menagerie at a slow, soothing pace just to burn time, stopping here and there for him to do odd jobs, like lighting Addison’s pipe, scratching the unreachable itch of a few animals, and removing magical hairballs from the mouths of cats and goats. When the daylight burned red on the west horizon, the pigeon lead him back from whence he came, where he plopped down on a lumpy bunk mattress, not even caring that he didn't have a pillow or blanket. And thus was how Jacob spent the longest afternoon in the world- an afternoon without Enoch.

  
…

  
The day had been quite eventful, and even the lumpy hay mattress on an iron cot was better than sleeping on a sliding mat on the floor of a swerving boat. But it wasn't as nice as sleeping cuddled into Enoch's side, face pressed into a broad ribcage covered with a neatly pressed, however itchy, sweater. That was the first thing he thought of when he woke up to the crow of a distant rooster on the rainy morning of September fifth, 1940. Or, really, whatever day it was in Miss Wren's loop. 

  
The only reason Jake knew that it was raining was the patter of rain on the tin roof, since there were no windows to be seen in the cottage. It wasn't too terribly claustrophobic in the boy’s bunks, but everyone, only somewhat accustomed to sleeping with Hugh, were slightly annoyed by the steady trickle of bees he snored in and out.

  
Jake, even though he bore no resemblance to the legendary creature called a “morning person”, was the first to arise, just because his first thoughts were, predictably, of Enoch. After a brief trip to the outhouse and a rinse off from the well, Jake put on the sweater he wore yesterday. It was itchy, but at least it was warm and dry. He did have a suitcase that was just a combination of whoever’s extra clothes that just so happened to fit him, some of them even from the trunk left behind by the young version of his grandfather, but it just kinda felt weird wearing someone else’s clothes, especially because he'd see them around every day and they were always wearing something pretty darn similar. Enoch had no shortage of drab cardigans, sweaters, and crisply-starched, fairly-intimidating button-ups. Neat and organized to a calculating science, old-fashioned and imposing, much like his ever perfectly-parted hair, gelled into submission. The look fit him well.

  
On Jake, the sweater was quite baggy, but having worn it for two days, he'd kind of grown into it. Or it had grown on him, either one.

  
Jake was looking around at the empty shelves and wondering if they were planning on eating grass for breakfast when Enoch walked on in, behind Miss Peregrine. He avoided, at all costs, looking at Jake, which briefly hurt his feelings, but he just chuckled when he saw Enoch suspiciously fiddling with a dark brown, frizzy curl on the side of his hair. He flashed a smile for the briefest of seconds, before tensing up his expression and turning towards Jacob, lips pursed, as did Miss Peregrine.

  
“Oh, Jacob, it's nice to see you're up. I was just about to start breakfast. I've got some eggs here, and some milk.” Both Jacob and Enoch turned to face her.

  
“I can make omelets,” Jake offered.

  
“Oh, show-off,” Enoch half-teased, frown relaxing into a smug Enoch-smile (which is to say he wasn't exactly smiling, as would a normal person, but neither was he frowning, which would be a normal Enoch face. This face usually only appears on normal people when playing poker or mildly constipated.)

  
“Show-off?” He dared, face spreading into a full, stupid grin.

  
“Yes. You could've gotten yourself killed so good that even I couldn't bring you back.”

  
“Ok, yes, I do realize this, since I did spend a good part of Saturday being yelled at for saving everyone's behind. I will, however, mention that I'm not the one who got a concussion yesterday.”

  
Enoch's expression soured just a bit. “You'd driven me insane, anyway. That was nothing.”

  
“That most certainly was not ‘ _nothing_ ’. Concussions can be quite serious, although yours wasn't all too bad. It was just amplified by stress and exhaustion,” Miss Peregrine interjected.

  
“Oh, see, now you're not a robot,” Jake teased. “Unless your batteries just ran out or something.”

"What?”

  
Oh, yeah. “It was just a stupid joke from the future.”

  
“You're right, it was stupid,” Enoch sneered.

  
“Not as stupid as you are, running headlong into a tree, giving yourself a concussion.” You need aloe for that tree scrape, O’Connor?

  
“I’ll give you a concussion!” Enoch growled, but he made no motion towards Jake, across the table.

  
“Boys! That was most entertaining, but this has gone far enough. Please do show us your omelette-making skills, Mr. Portman.” At Miss Peregrine’s orders, Jake pushed in the wooden chair he had been sitting at and started digging underneath the sink for a skillet as Miss Peregrine went out to wake everyone up. In a casual passing, Enoch noiselessly backhanded Jake’s upended bum, just hard enough for him to hit his shoulders somewhat stingingly on the cabinet top, a calculation Enoch no doubt accounted for.

  
Jake soon found the skillet and stood back up smiling as he turned to walk towards the stove to Enoch's back. Emma was just making it across the short kitchen when Jake tapped Enoch on the bum with the skillet.

  
Enoch turned around rather quickly, a regrettable decision given his recent concussion. In the half-second that it took the world to stop spinning, Jake had already turned to the stove and was starting on the omelets.

  
Enoch stood half-leaning on the coal-burning stove, smiling a pursed Enoch-smile. “This is war, Portman. And I _always_ win.”

  
With that, Enoch swatted at him again, and before Jake had time to say anything or get him back, he was already well on his way to the boys’ bunks.

 

 


	12. Sniffling at the Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t know if I mentioned this but I fairly recently managed to concuss myself, not unlike Enoch, but in an even stupider way. I was jogging and then face-planted on the asphalt. The world was spinning, but it didn’t go dark. Unless you count the asphalt itself. I nearly bit through my lower lip on that one :P #concussion number three #gonna have to start wearing a helmet
> 
> Without further ado, whatever this is

Enoch’s head was still a little swimmy. Perhaps that’s why he wasn’t too keen on eating whatever was swimming around, all soft and slithery, on his plate. Everyone else was, however, and there were a good few comments as to how good it was. Really, more than fancy food from the future that slides down a gullet like soap on a shower floor, Enoch just wanted goose liver pate and some toast triangles. Or maybe even hash browns. He can remember eating hash browns, but it’s been forever and a day. Fiona cries every time she sees a potato, and even Enoch can’t begrudge her that.

Enoch’s brain has whirred endlessly like a well-oiled machine for 117 years, give or take, but today the wheels were rusty and painful. He’d woken up and felt reasonably fine, and getting used to the dim lighting in the kitchen hardly hurt him. But looking at the eggs made him want to groan.

Looking at Jacob made it slightly better, but this action did not go unnoticed.

"Is he hotter than your omelet, O’ Connor?" Hugh teased. "You’ve hardly taken a bite. It’s gonna go cold," he added, his Irish lilt sing-songy.

"What?" Enoch’s voice was low due to his headache, but still gruff, aided by natural morning coarseness.

"Well, I’d just say that you’d like to kiss him rather than eat that egg pancake, but, the look that’s on your face right now, I’d say you wouldn’t want to get another concussion to do it. It’d be nice if we had a mirror handy, so you could look at yourself. Rougher than normal, I’d say, borderline rugged, really-"

Enoch cut Hugh off just as he was about to add something about a grizzly bear hibernating. "What are you talking about," he groaned, too tired to be menacing but still managing to get the job done.

Hugh’s mouth didn’t open except to swallow a bee. "I said," Enoch repeated, more agitated, "What are you talking about."

Hugh was scared buzzless. But Claire had no fear, as always. "The way you kissed him! After you got knocked out, and you laid there a bit until we could get you woke enough to get over the wall, but you came really woken up when you saw Jacob come up the hill, really woke, it was a bit frightening really, I don’t think most of what you said was even English, but then you told him off, and then you kissed him, and then you passed out again."

Enoch’s head hurt even more with the strain to remember and the sudden onslaught of information, but he just sat back in his chair. "Hm. Thank you, Claire." Enoch could never really be mad at Claire. The entire world simultaneously, yes, but that never included Claire. She’s too precious for this world, including Enoch’s wrath. Everyone else, however, especially at this moment, could smell his socks. (They were quite foul due to the fact that he hadn’t the presence of mind, even unconcussed, to pack a second pair of socks. Or, really, the care.) "I don’t remember that. It didn’t happen."

"Of course you don’t remember, you had a concussion," Jacob scoffed.

Enoch was short. And nervous, backed into a corner he’d never come across before, and he wasn’t in the mood to stay there. He could withdraw or lash out. Being a snapping turtle, he chose to do both.

"Shut up," he grunted, well aware the attack was weak but too weary and agitated to care. He grabbed his mostly full plate of egg-thing and briefly debated dumping it on Jacob’s stupid head before just walking it over to the sink, but he didn’t stop there.

He was almost to the door when Miss Peregrine interjected. "Mr. O’ Connor, you must eat something and, though I understand your affliction, you’re being unbelievably crass. Well, unbelievable for everyone excluding yourself. Return to your seat, Mr. O’ Connor. You haven’t been excused."

Enoch did pause for a second, to his credit. But he still swung open the door and started to saunter off, breaking out into a full-on run despite his pounding head when he heard Miss Peregrine running after him.  
Normally, Miss Peregrine refuses to run in her thick Victorian garb, but the universal exception is for the good of her wards, whether they like it or not. Eventually, she cornered the surprisingly tactically gifted boy with the help of an emuraffe armed with a tranquilizer dart in its jowls.  
When she pulled Enoch, flailing almost drunkenly but completely silent in defeat, through the door of the cabin by his ear, a few peculiars chuckled nervously, but most just averted their eyes in a kind of odd respect. Jake fell into neither category, staring at Enoch as he crossed the narrow room in Miss Peregrine’s tow with eyes wide in concern.

  
There was a sound of a body being plunked down on the iron cot, a groan or two, a few tender scolds and then a dozen footsteps before Miss Peregrine reappeared. “Well, that’s enough of that. Mr. O’ Connor is unbelievably stressed at this point in time. If you thought he was even mildly intimidating before, I’d suggest giving him a wide berth. Now, Mr. Portman, since you made this food, you will clean up the dishes. Everyone else should go make themselves useful about the menagerie, since we are guests after all.”

  
Even though it was still drizzling outside, not even Horace let out a sigh as they filed out of the cabin. These were not Miss Peregrine’s ordinary modes of operation by any stretch. This was martial law.

  
“I’m sure you’ve deduced by now that I’ve simply shoed everyone out of the house to have a word with you, Mr. Portman,” Miss Peregrine started, regaining her usual coolness and crispness reminiscent of the autumn day of her old loop, September 3, 1940. “Mr. O’ Connor will be out for quite some time now, and I guarantee that he will be no peach when he wakes up. Truly, he never has been. Which is not to say that he is rotten, but troubled isn’t a word I would hesitate to use, at least without risk of him overhearing. Tread very carefully, Mr. Portman, not for fear of breaking your nose, but for fear of breaking his heart. He’s got a way of mending hearts, you know, but the bigger they get, the more trouble he tends to have. It’s no wonder he slinks and slouches about, what with Australia ripping in half within his chest everyday for over a century. I’d suggest to stroke him, Mr. Portman.”  
Jake looked up from where he was, absently swishing a washcloth around one of their plates, eyes wide.

  
“His ego! Stroke his ego! Oh, Mount Saint Helens, don’t misconstrue my sound advice, Mr. Portman.”

  
It seemed like a good time to smile, but Jake couldn’t dig one out from his insides. They’d turned to jelly and his arms had turned to jelly and he was all mixed up as it was. So he just nodded and kept swishing washcloths around eggy porcelain plates.

  
“Well, that’s all I had to say. It’s quite obvious, Mr. Portman, but it needed to be said. What did a president of you Yanks once say? Speak softly and carry a big stick? There, you should know. I wish you the best of luck Mr. Portman, inside and out of your dealings with Mr. O’ Connor. This entire affair would be a lot for any developing peculiar to handle, without factoring in the affairs developing hearts, one of them belonging to none other than Enoch O’ Connor. You’re doing quite well, considering.”

  
Jake just nodded, smiling a forced smile and choking out a “Thanks, Miss Peregrine,” as she walked out the door. He just stayed put, swishing a washcloth around eggy porcelain plates.

…

Once he’d finished with the dishes, Jake went out to see what he could do on the menagerie. For the first (or maybe the second now) time in his life, Jake had been quick to make friends. It really wasn’t hard for him to find odd jobs to do, no matter how minuscule. Eventually, as he was carefully scooping droppings out of the doomsday chicken coop, the troupe passed by him, on their way back down the hill, probably for lunch. Jake didn’t want to be late, but he also didn’t want to leave a job half-done, so he mediocrely swept out the rest of the coop and was on his way, running to catch up.  
Miss Peregrine had a basket of groceries with her that most likely didn’t come from the store. After putting a few things up, she got started on lunch. A line filed to wash their hands at the outdoor spigot, and once it was through, Miss Peregrine had already managed to make some kind of beef stroganoff.

  
Lunch was louder than breakfast, since they’d all woken up and put the past behind them. All except for Jake.

  
At one of the normal lulls in conversation, Emma crooked her head, grey eyes squinting. “Do you hear that?”

  
“I think an animal's hurt,” Bronwyn worriedly declared, quick to open the front door to scope it out.

  
“No, it’s coming from the other direction,” Emma corrected her.

  
“It’s Enoch,” Horace finally said. “Is he hurt?”

  
“Probably. Can I go check on him?” Jake turned towards Miss Peregrine and then to the door to the boys’ bunks.

  
“Yes, but do speak softly. He most likely has quite the migraine,” Miss Peregrine instructed, discreetly hinting at their former conversation.

  
He just nodded before crossing the small room swiftly, strides long.

  
Enoch was curled tighter than his hair on the cot Jacob had spent last night, sniffling at the roses on the mattress cover. Enoch didn’t seem to have heard him enter, but he announced his presence somewhat intentionally with a creaky floorboard. Enoch mimicked the sound with a half-hearted whimper, but didn’t actually protest. Assuming he was un-tranquilized enough to do so, Enoch would’ve already ripped him up one side in Gaelic and down the other in English if he were truly consumed with anger for Jacob.

  
Jake took off his shoes to minimalize the noise, and he smiled because it reminded him of his first encounter with Enoch, just a few nights ago, when he’d spied on him and removed his shoes for the exact same reason. It wouldn’t have been a stretch to say Enoch was on the verge of giving the spy-turned-runner a concussion with those shoes, and now here they were, Enoch shoeless as well, concussed and unnaturally tranquil after a shoddy escape attempt. “Oh, how the turntables.” Jake almost chuckled at the goofy Michael Scott quote, but the Scot in front of him was so sad he felt more like crying instead.

  
Enoch lifted his head slightly when Jake sat at his feet, but plopped it back down to the creaky mattress because it weighed three tonnes, an action he regretted somewhat when some pain sprung through his head. His poor head had been through a lot, especially recently, literally and figuratively, and now it was splitting at the seams like a solar oven-baked homunculus. “Come here,” Enoch croaked, and he even debated about adding a please, but Jake was too quick on the draw for him.

  
Jake read the dizzying words written on the fraying pages of his mind and simply scooted up behind him, letting his long legs swing over the side of the bed. Enoch layed his head on the other boy’s lap and chuckled.

  
“What?” Jacob whispered.

  
“These have to be Hugh’s pants. He’s the only one who wears waxed tweed.”

  
“You’re not wrong,” Jake smiled.

  
“Have I ever been?” Enoch sighed, smiling. “Don’t answer that.”

  
And so he didn’t. He just sat there, playing with Enoch’s ridiculous greasy, frizzy, and tangly hair. “Messy hair, don’t care,” Jake thought, twining a mahogany lock around his finger.

  
Enoch rolled over onto his back from the fetal position he hadn’t moved from for four hours or better, grateful to stretch out his legs. Jake still just fiddled with Enoch’s frizz and fuzz, looking down at the boy with such fluffy hair and a prickly personality, expectant. But neither of them said anything, not until Enoch started hyperventilating.

  
Jake kept a hand on his hair and placed the other on his chest, and his breathing soon started to slow down. “You okay?” Jake asked, voice low and slow.

  
“Yeah.” He started to roll over again, but Jake stopped him with the gentle hand on his chest.

  
“You don’t have to lie to me. I get it, you’re a Soviet spy, but I’m part Polish so I can see through you, comrade.”

  
“Well, since you’re only part Polish, I’d say that’s only partly true,” Enoch half-smirked, but it had a half-life shorter than the element Francium, which was discovered only last year to Enoch. Or 78 years ago if you choose to count that way, which is still well within his memory.

  
Jake only hummed and continued to pet the poodle-headed boy, who kept ever so slightly opening his mouth only to shut it seconds after.

  
“You can tell me anything,” Jake pleaded softly.

  
Enoch just sighed. “No, I can’t.” He then managed to peel himself, shaking, off the musty bed and onto the dusty floor. Jacob shot up, with his hand out, but Enoch would still rather wobble and hobble to places he has no business being than lean on anyone else, even Jacob. That’s the way it’s always been. 


	13. Army of Skeletons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was cathartic

Enoch had always fantasized about building an army. His ghoulish creations would rise up around him in a circle a mile strong, and no one would be able to hurt him again. Or Miss Peregrine, or Claire, or Jake, or anybody.

He had been, for decades, faintly aware that he had already built an army. The skeletons in his closet were surrounding him, standing shoulder to shoulder, wielding knives and swords.

They had always stood in defense of him - slicing the throats of those that spoke against him and the legs of those who dared to draw near. The war had been waging for better than a century, and they hadn’t yet lost a battle.

For the first time in his life, maybe Enoch wanted them to lose. Or not. He didn’t know, and half the battle was just figuring out what he wanted. Every teenager’s head is a civil war, but the artillery inside of his was enough to split him up and down and side to side and pull him inside out.

He felt that right now - being ripped apart. The burning behind his eyes and in the back of his throat. The thickness of the breath that was coming too fast. The bricks loaded on his shoulders and chest, drowning him as he flailed in the middle of a lightless, chasmic sea. It made his head hurt, and it wasn’t because of that stupid concussion. It was because, for once in his life, he was trying to claw his way free, out of the closet where his skeletons lived, out into the open, where, in being all alone, he might find true human companionship.

He knew he would be vulnerable out in the open. Only his arms could throw off the knives that could come towards him in any direction and only his legs could carry him away. Still, deep down, he knew he wanted to see it. The sun. It was hidden from him for decades, since the skeletons towered above his head and the doors to the closet were always closed.

He was being flayed into chunks in all directions now. The threat wasn’t just what had given him stomach aches all these years; what had kept him up at night; what had made the world spin around him even though, contrary to popular belief, Enoch knew he wasn’t the center of the universe. Now, his skeleton army had even more to concern itself with, and apparently it was strong enough to handle it. Now, their knives turned toward Enoch as he tried to squirm his way through the masses, getting stabbed everywhere imaginable and thrown back the small distance to the center, from whence he came. He just lied there, bleeding from a million wounds, not knowing how he had any blood left.

He knew he was the one giving them the power. He was the only person who ever could, but they were him now. He had given them so much power that they had the uperhand in his life, it wasn’t just a matter of cutting them off. He felt that half of him would be gone, even if it were the darker side. He was scared to live it with only one hand, infeebled with lack of use, and tired of living with half a heart. He didn't know which side to be fighting on.

Jake wasn't dumb. He was actually quite sharp. That much was apparent to him, but just as he didn’t know the people the hollows had been before they’d sprouted tentacles and their blood ran black, Jake didn’t know the names or the faces of Enoch's skeletons. He hoped he would, someday. But for now, he just hoped he was sharp enough to help Enoch cut through them.

He was staring at Enoch at an awkward sideways angle as they were cleaning up the last pen of the stable furthest away from the guest house. Who had left the dung there was anyone’s guess, since the animals of this stable had complex enough social lives to have fights with neighbors and roommates, making them keen to play musical pens. All Jake did was sigh, thinking of Enoch and the prospect of potty-training whatever lived there, but it blended in nicely with the sound of pitchforks scraping the floor and heavy breathing.

The walk was silent, as the day had been. Silent except for Addison, but there was never any room for a word edgewise, and if somehow a "Shut up" were somehow able to worm its way in, you might as well have swallowed a doomsday chicken egg.  
Jake wasn’t paying attention, instead watching the rocky soil roll around beneath their shoes and mud from the regularly scheduled drizzle sloshing up their sides. If he was glad for one thing, it was that his modern tennis shoes were still in good enough condition to use, if not a little worse for wear. He’d hate to wear clunky boots like Enoch or Hugh. He could see Hugh sporting some type of modern shoe, especially ones made for hardcore trail running. Millard would probably be fond of Crocs. He couldn’t see Enoch wearing much different than the two pairs he’d so far witnessed: grave-digging boots and frown-slightly-when-you-meet-the-bereaved-family Oxfords.

Four well-groomed paws, grave-digging boots, and navy blue Nike’s (seldom used for their original purpose of athletics) trudged up and down the hilly trail that lead to the guest house. The door creaked and something croaked- but it wasn’t frog, as one might expect. It was the elusive Balenciaga Wren, and elusive was a very accurate term to use judging by the current topic of conversation.

"Miss Peregrine and I have become aware in the last few days that the threat posed by the Wights against our kind is now impossible to ignore. Several of our fellow ymbrynes have been captured, to the extent that it is reasonable to believe that we are the last two uncaptured." Miss Wren looked at them sideways as they entered, but continued speaking to the congregation of peculiar children. "Because I am the only one who can reset this loop, you all will be staying here with me while Miss Peregrine is trying to find the lost ymbrynes of a city that will remain unnamed, and setting up a very secure and strategic loop near the wight head quarters."

"London," Emma declared, a threatening edge to her voice.

"Excuse us?" Miss Peregrine chimed in, pleasant, but not pleased.

"You’re going off to London, and you’re not doing it alone." Her arms were crossed and her jaw was set. Seldom, if ever, would Emma talk back to her hero, but she meant it. She’d already lived a full life, thanks to her, and she was nothing if not willing to put it on the line for her.

"Miss Bloom, I appreciate your dedication and tenacity, but that is not the case. You will be safest here."

"But what’s the use, Miss Peregrine? You can’t just go rescue anyone or shut down the wights alone. You’ll need back up," Jake pointed out. It was the first time in a week or better that Emma agreed with him. That didn’t mean she wasn’t still seething at him. She was, but now she was also seething at one more person.

"I never said I’d be doing any of those things. I’m simply going to see if the ymbrynes have been captured, collect any children they may have left behind, and set up a small loop if possible." Emma was stubborn, but Miss Peregrine’s will was as hard as the line of her frown.

"If it really is as dangerous as you say it is, then it’ll be crawling with hollows. Take me with you." Jake was insistent.

"No, and that is final!" Miss Peregrine snapped. "These matters are non-negotiable."

"You haven't a thing to worry about. Miss Alma Lefay Peregrine is a tough old bird, and so am I. While you're ere, you’re safe, and you don't have to keep cleaning and feeding the animals, either. All of that’s taken care of in the loop reset."

Miss Peregrine face-palmed. "I wasn’t intending on telling them that, Balenciaga," she muttered almost indecorously.

"We knew it all along," Enoch scoffed. "We just respect you enough to do it anyway."

The air had thickened. It takes enough to get Enoch to say much of anything, much less words like "love" and "respect" or "feelings", and even less likely than that would be to reveal his own.

"Thank you, Enoch," Miss Peregrine nearly murmured, turning her sharp eyes solemnly to the floor for a brief second. While her eyebrows lowered, at least one of everyone else’s lifted. A first name?

Miss Peregrine realized her lapse in character and immediately re - squared her shoulders. "I’ll be leaving on the morrow. For now, however, we shall have dinner, but not here. Please do make way for Miss Wren."

Everyone did so, and Miss Wren strolled off, her less formal nature evident in her gait. Only when Miss Peregrine followed her, however, did any other human make a motion to cross the door. She had imprinted on them, and fledglings only follow their mother.

The barn they made their way to was stuffed full with the dozens of animals they’d become acquainted with over the brief time they’d been lodged within the unfamiliar loop. Some sat at tables, and others, less refined, took to the floor or the rafters. The one place the peculiar animals weren't seated, however, was the large rectangular table in the center.

It was too much of a send-off. It was the last supper. There was nothing they could do to change that fact in and of itself, but there wasn’t one peculiar there who wasn’t working out a plan to follow her, and Enoch wasn’t an exception.

The skeletons in his brain turned back around. This was not the time to be thinking about himself, no matter how bad he needed to. He had been so strong for so long. He needed to be strong until this ordeal finally came to an end, whether that end would be peace in peculiardom at long last, or the peace he’d find in his death.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe i actually updated

Jake's abs were on fire.  
  
Enoch had explained to him earlier that the best way to clear your head is to exert your body, so he figured he'd give it a try. He was thirty in, and his mind was consumed with pain and self-deprecating thoughts pertaining thereto.  
  
He layed down on the dewy grass, arms stretched out long, perpendicular to his trunk. He had purposely strayed far from all of the other peculiars, animals or human, so that he could get some space to think (and so that they couldn't see his lousy attempt at a workout.)  
  
Jacob shut his eyes and took in a deep breath, attempting to meditate, as Dr. Golan had told him to. Meditate and medicate, the trademarked Golan strategy. He tried not to curse her too much, however, since it didn't do to dwell on things so far behind him. He just needed to focus on the present moment, make some headspace. Another deep breath in, and a long breath out.  
  
Something smelled funny.  
  
Vitriol and mud. Hot breath that curls around your neck. Kerosene and blood.  
  
Jake tried to push it out of his brain. It was probably due to stress; a troublesome figment of his imagination, nothing more.  He kept his eyes shut and tried to take in another deep breath, but his eyes flew open, a heavy sting behind them, almost like he was going to cry, but not quite. He knew this feeling. The constriction in the throat, the tensing in the shoulders, the restlessness of the legs.  
  
A hollow, but hollows couldn't breech loops. Could they?  
  
He peeled himself from the ground, muscles quivering in fear and wiry anticipation. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to convince himself that it was just his brain that the sit-ups were killing him, but his ears were harder to fool, the shrill SREAAAAYAWWWWW! of an emuraffle tearing through his eardrums.  
  
His eyes snapped open and he was already running to the cabin, adrenalin and urgency forcing his discomfort from his mind.  
  
He soon found himself banging at the heavy, weathered-oak door, probably filling his fists with splinters, but he didn't notice. "Let me in!" He howled.  
  
Jake heard someone else howl, too. "I have specific orders to keep you in the cabin! If you open that door, nobody gets out!" The bar clattered to the floor and whatever makeshift barricade had been thrown together in the last two minutes was scooched slightly out of the way. He didn't bother trying to weasel through it, despite Addison's orders.  
  
 "This is the last thing we need to be doing! Never corner yourselves! Come on!" He probably looked like the Dad from the shining, yelling maniacally while forcing his head through the narrow space Bronwyn had opened for him, but the thought didn't occur to him. The here and now was 1940, and he had forgotten everything else.  
  
"Well, what _are_ we doing?"  
  
This gave Jacob a moment's pause that he felt they couldn't afford, but Emma was right. Running into battle with no plan was certain death. His lips pursed into a twisted frown.  
  
"Miss Wren will probably shut the loop after we evacuate. Half of the threat is the wights outside the loop, not the hollows within. We need to find them, or else it doesn't matter whether we make it or not," Enoch coolly asserted himself.  
  
"We won't make it out if we don't deal with the hollows," Emma retorted.  
  
Jake could scarcely stand waiting a minute longer, his bowels churning and his hands slippery with sweat and tremors. He opened his mouth convinced that his lunch would make its way up his esophagus, but instead, words were pushed up his throat from deep below. "I'll get some exploding eggs and try to take them. You guys get out."  
  
"That's absurd!" Emma barked so fiercely Addison would be proud. "If you do that, you'll never join us and we'll never make it far, anyways. We need you," she grunted through clenched teeth.  
  
"I do agree with Emma," Addison declared, ever-polite and intelligent.  
  
"We're running out of time," Jake urged. "What else is there to do?

Jake turned toward Enoch, praying that the master of death and destruction would have some sage advice picked up somewhere over his over one hundred years of life. He was staring out into space, oblivious. "ENOCH!" Jake shouted, his temper finally boilibg over. Enoch didn't even flench as he watched the depressions move across the tall, swaying grass.  
  
Jake turned his head and braced to fling himself upon the oncoming hollow, but an egg flying through the air halted him. The gigantic beast collapsed onto itself, and Jake could feel that it was near death. Suffering and pain filled him and he struggled to keep on his feet as they all stared at the wreckage in the grass. A tingling relief rushed him as he felt the last drops of life tinkle from the magnificent creature. Jake was transfixed by it, tears prickling behind his eyes.  
  
"Let's go!" He was torn from his trance by a death grip pulling on his wimpy bicep. As if making up for lost time, his mind was in overdrive as the pack fled across the desecration in progress, searching for Miss Wren.  
  
Claire pressed her face into Bronwyn's muscular shoulder when she saw the wrung necks of emu raffles strewn about, the trampled herds of pygmy elephants oozing out of mounds of upheaved earth. Olive briefly considered flying away before she remembered her duties here, on the ground. Enoch saw the pirate rats that had been around since the plague, swords drawn and ready to fight. "All hands hoay!" He stopped only briefly to order them to hunker down in the sweater rumpled across his shoulders and arms. The captain picked a perch on his head, but he didn't mind.  
  
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Miss Wren screeched, turning around to face the troop with an empty crossbow in hand. "I sent Addison to keep you in the cabin!"  
  
"We both know that was destined for failure," the Bassett hound pouted.  
  
Miss Wren huffed, not seeing what was coming up to her left. It was a good fifty feet away, but gaining ground fast.  
  
"Enoch, do you have another egg?" He pleaded.  
  
"No," he whispered, looking shocked with himself. He started to take of in the opposite direction.  
  
"What is this? Get back to the cabin immediately. I am going to get more ammunition." The tubby Miss Wren ran off in the opposite direction of the hollow, towards the barn.  
  
"There's no time," he halted him before turning toward Bronwyn and Olive. "Bronwyn, can you go pick up that rock over there?"  
  
"That one?" Jake nodded, but she didn't see him as she ran to heave it into her pre-teen arms.  
  
"Olive, do you think that you could somehow hoist Bronwyn amd that rock into the air?"  
  
Her pale, chubby-cheeked face contorted into a pained grimace. "C'mon, Liv, we can do it," Bronwyn nudged her gently, and it set a fearful determination in her eyes.  
  
"I'll try," she said, and the next moment Bronwyn was being tied tightly to her waist with just enough slack for Jake to steer the two. The young girl stepped out of her leaden shoes, and with quite the push from Enoch, started slowly ascending into the air.  
  
Jake could see once they were off the ground that this was not going to work. Even with a push-off, Olive was barely hovering five feet above the ground, Bronwyn suspended a mere few inches. In his panic, Jake almost missed Bronwyn hurling the huge stone into the earth, catapulting them off with an alarming speed. Jake grappled for the slack, but Bronwyn had quickly snatched it up. For a slight moment, no one dared even to breathe. Suddenly, the silence was broken by a whosh of the rope through the air and, for Jake, an awful scream. Seeing the tracks from above, Bronwyn had managed to lasso a few slimy tentacles of the creature, but they quickly slipped away.  
  
Jake could see it bracing to jump, knowing full well that it could make it to the girls. "STOP!" He yelled, and, for a second, it looked his way. " _Stop_ ," he commanded once again, the words pushing themselves from somewhere deep inside himself that he didn't know he had, and this time, it cowered. " _Stay._ "  
  
He turned to Enoch, begging to whatever god who gave Enoch the power to thwart the grave that there was some semblance of a plan for them.

He was holding a wooden post from a random enclosure thst had been destroyed, barred and ready to go at the hollow. If Jake weren't nearly crushed by the gravity of the situation, he would've made some stupid joke about Braveheart. Jake nodded, and that was all the send off he needed before flinging himself at the frozen hollow. Tge rats scurried down him, tearing at the creature's tentacles with tiny swords fit to skewer the sandwiches at Jake's sixth birthday party.

Jake could feel whatever control he had over this hollow quickly fading as he struggled to wrap the entirety of his mind around the creature, ensnaring it as he had before. An increasingly large portion of his consciousness dedicated itself to praying that someone would show up now, unlike his sixth birthday party. 

The arrow came not a moment too soon, as the aggravated, but largely unharmed, monster began to thrash. His shoulders relaxed down when he could no longer feel its life weighing down on his shoulders. 

Jake's biggest fear now was that Miss Wren was going to shoot them with her crossbow, her matronly face irate with indignation. "I thought I told you all to go to the cabin," she hissed. "You could have gotten yourselves killed." She breathed deeply and softened just slightly. "Nonetheless, you did do a good job at staving off the hollow. Now, be quick, pack light, and everybody take a sweater."


End file.
